Ties
by Have Socks. Will Travel
Summary: The team has another mark.  And this time, it's Arthur's Step-father
1. For Family

_I'm back in the world of fanfiction once again, and let me tell you, my trip away from it was not pleasant. I'm hoping that life doesn't take me away from my homeland again. C: I saw Inception not a few days ago (I know: how could you have JUST BARELY seen the movie? Like I said, life happens and sometimes it happens hard) and voila, a little plot bunny burrowed into my brain and has taken up residence._

_I won't give away what happens in this chapter. So before I actually do, I'm going to start_.

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter One

-_Wherein the Next Job Poses a Problem_-

* * *

If Ariadne's feelings at the moment were to be described as any color, they would be the same purple as the sculpture she was trying to purchase. Perhaps more of a Red-Purple, though, because she was more angry than blue.

Her current anger was directed at a dog eared old man, whose three-piece suit was doing nothing to convince her that he had been civilized for more than two years. He had all the trappings of a dignified old man, but the words that spewed out of his mouth would have been more at home with a three year-old: everything he said was judgmental. But unlike a three year-old, this man knew exactly what he was saying and it was not endearing in the slightest.

It was in the company of this man that her cell-phone rang for the first time. She didn't pick it up. The old man at the Art Gala had already raised his eyebrows enough at her ratty jeans and her Boston Red Sox t-shirt that she was sure his eyebrow muscle was starting to hurt. She didn't need to give him another reason to raise the displaced caterpillar and to mutter comments about "disrespectful" and "college students" under his foul breath. (Ariadne was glad, however, that she didn't actually know if his breath was foul. She hadn't been close enough to smell, a fact which pleased both party members greatly.)

The source of the contention was a medium sized sculpture that cost a small fortune. The old man didn't seem to think that Ariadne had enough money to purchase the statue and Ariadne was prudent enough not to mention that she did, thanks to a certain illegal procedure. Ariadne hadn't spent any of the "salary" Saito had direct deposited into her bank account over the six months it had been since the Inception job, and she was on tenterhooks. She had always been frugal, but with so much money in her figurative pocket, she knew it would combust if she didn't spend any of it soon.

And now she remembered why it was she never shopped. When she asked for the sculpture to be boxed up (which didn't seem a normal practice around such hoity places) the man handed it over to her with obvious feelings of misgiving. He didn't even bow to her on the way out. She saw in her peripheral that he bowed to the people on their way in. Ariadne didn't bother to keep in her snort of distaste. A man on the sidewalk next to her edged away.

* * *

It was her last week in Paris and Ariadne accredited this fact to why she might have splurged on buying the sculpture (now sitting on her desk.) She was, first of all, finished with her undergraduate degree and that itself deserved celebration. She was headed home to visit with family for a month before she came back to Paris to find a job and start her years at graduate school. She wanted to bring something back for her parents, something that meant something to her, which was where the statue came in. Before she had bought it, it had represented an architectural wonder—something she hoped to build. But after she bought it, it became a symbol for the pain and suffering the average college student went through—though she wouldn't tell her parents that fact.

But more than anything, the statue was one last homage to the Inception job. A job that had taken her three months to complete and six months to stop thinking about obsessively. She had hoped someone would contact her again—Arthur, Eames, Cobb, even Yusuf—and offer her another job. But there had been no call. No offer. Not even a promise to call her after X-number of days to see how she was doing and if she had gotten all of the money Saito had told them about. And, heaven forbid that they were friends after working for three months together, there wasn't even a call not about a job. No friendly hello, no warm reminiscing. _Fischer_ had paid her more attention when she had gotten off the plane, and he had only given her a confused look.

And so the statue became, for her, proof that the job had happened. Proof that those three months of make-up work weren't because of some random coma. The statue became proof that _something_ _had_ come out of the Fischer job.

And then her phone rang for the second time.

* * *

The number wasn't one that she recognized, but the city locator told her that it was an out of area number. Throwing caution to the wind—who cared that she had enemies now, at Fischer Morrow?—she answered the call with a feeling akin to being at the top of a rollercoaster.

The resulting conversation offered her more excitement than any rollercoaster would.

"Hello?" English was the universal business language, Ariadne thought, so it was her best bet with an out of area caller. That, and it was the only language she knew, aside from asking "Where is the bathroom" in Spanish and French.

"Ariadne?"

It was Yusuf. Ariadne nearly fainted from inhaling too much oxygen.

"Where did you get my number?" Was all she could think to ask.

She heard laughing—more than one person's laugh, which caused her hyperventilation-like breaths to start again.

"Are you still in Paris, Ariadne?" The man asked from the other end. She noticed that he didn't answer her question, but it had become unimportant.

"Yes!" The volume of the answer was almost on par with some of the shouts of anger Ariadne had heard at football (1) matches in Paris. She promised to herself that the next time she talked, it would be quieter. And maybe not so desperate.

"Are you at your apartment?"

Ariadne answered yes at a softer volume this time.

"Stay where you are, then. Someone will be over to pick you up."

The phone clicked and the dial-tone started up again before Ariadne was able to tell him where her apartment was located. But she knew they would find her. All the oxygen gathered during her hyperventilating stage of her conversation with Yusuf seemed to have turned into helium. She was so excited she seemed to be floating

* * *

With a squeal not unlike a pig she had seen at a petting zoo (she hadn't been allowed to pet it) and with an undignified grace that would have proved the Old Art Man's point, she nearly slide-tackled Eames when he pulled up in a non-descript car. Usually Ariadne was a more collected girl and prided herself with a head so level a marble would stand still on it. But there was a sense of relief rushing through her body like lava and it was burning holes in that levelheadedness and was causing her to lose the marbles that had been balanced there for so long. Seeing Eames meant that those three months had happened. And seeing the smile on his face maybe hinted that he had missed their time together too. (Ariadne refused to believe that he was smiling because she had almost tripped.)

The car trip was so short Ariadne wondered why they had even bothered to send a car. She had half expected them to drive to the old warehouse, but obviously that had been rented to another customer in the six months since. Eames drove the car instead to a hotel. He threw the keys to the valet with a practiced air. Ariadne found this at odds with his incorrectly tied tie. She hid a smile.

* * *

The elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor was longer for Ariadne than the car ride had been. After six months apart, a few floors seemed to be an outrageous boundary between her and a new adventure. The only thing that kept her from hopping up and down in apprehension was the fact that it might stall the elevator and keep her from reaching her destination.

Oddly, when the doors to the elevator opened and Ariadne let out all the air she had kept in her lungs to make herself lighter (and make the elevator move faster) she found herself calm. She wasn't shaking with hysteria like she had been on the elevator. Her steps were measured and she was privately patting herself on the back for not sprinting to the hotel room door. When they finally got to the door (practically a mile from the elevator) Eames inserted the key and the bulb above the lock flashed green.

Green for Go.

Ariadne pushed the door open with the force and speed a shot-put master would be proud of.

And she found the door was blocked by Arthur, who had been in the middle of hanging up his suit jacket.

It was the moment she had steeled her nerves for over the last six months. And probably the reason she had been so calm on the walk to the room. She had spent six months telling herself that Arthur had been a good _friend_, and only a good _friend_. That other men (besides the Old Art Guy) looked just as attractive in three-piece suits. She had turned down date offers from classmates, but not for any particular reason. She had told herself that.

But the steel wall of words she had built around herself experienced a cold snap and they came tumbling down the moment she saw his (slightly confused) face. He was the same cool and collected person she had left in the airport and worked with for all of those months. His hair was combed back and his tie was properly knotted.

He halted in hanging up his blazer for long enough to discern who had rammed a door into him. When he saw who it was, he shot Ariadne his customary half-smile (which further melted the steel of her now crumpled walls,) and stepped out of the way to let Eames and Ariadne into the hotel room. Ariadne stepped into the room and found herself examining Arthur's shoes (still very polished, she noted) to hide the red that had covered her face.

Salutations were short and there was no small talk. Ariadne received a hug from Yusuf and Arthur (walls now completely destroyed) and then turned her attention to Cobb for a briefing.

Only to discover that he wasn't in the room.

Instead, Eames, of all people, started talking.

"Now if everyone would find a seat, I've got a proposition."

Ariadne found a place on the foot of a bed. Arthur had found an uncomfortable looking chair and was tipping it back on two legs. By the way Eames was looking at him, Ariadne could tell that Eames wanted to kick one of the legs out and send Arthur sprawling. But Eames was in charge of talking, and he was in a suit and tie, so he seemed to figure that he had to be professional.

But just this once.

"Cobb called me a few days ago," he began. "He called me and told me that he had gotten an offer for a job. But, he was indisposed, so he couldn't do the job. He thought I might like to take it and offer it to you guys."

He let this information sink it for a few seconds. He was about to start again when Yusuf offered up a question that Ariadne had been wondering herself.

"Why can't Cobb help out?" He asked. "What's got him 'indisposed'?"

Eames shrugged. "If any of you girls—no offense to the present company—want to tell me, then you can be my guest."

Ariadne looked at Arthur, who obviously would be the one to know (possible explanation for the negative use of "girl" on Eames' part?).

Arthur snorted and offered another half smile, looking down at his hands. "He's in Disneyland. With James and Phillipa. He told me they were going a few days ago."

Ariadne, for the life of her, couldn't picture Arthur small-talking with Cobb on the phone. Even more so, she couldn't picture Arthur talking about Disneyland. For a moment she thought about the conversation that might have happened. For some reason, the idea of Arthur offering up ride suggestions ("…_And you have to make sure that James goes on Splash Mountain. It was my favorite!_") was ridiculous.

And then Ariadne had another thought. A confusing one.

"Wait… If you talked to Cobb a few days ago, why didn't he give you the information about the new job?"

Arthur's eyebrows knit and his shoulders raised in a shrug. It appeared that he had already thought of that fact and had been pondering it for some time. Always the point man; forever one step ahead.

But here Eames offered clarity. "Ah, I might have the answer to that…"

All eyes zeroed in on him and he had the audacity to look uncomfortable, though Ariadne realized it wasn't because of the attention. He shot Arthur a quick look before turning back to the other two.

"It's because of our mark. Cobb was being a saint, again, and trying to protect a team member, insufferable and snarky as this particular team member is—"

"Who is the mark?" Arthur interrupted.

Eames muttered something about a "chair" and how something should have been "knocked out." Ariadne was pretty sure he wasn't talking about a chair being knocked out. But then he continued in a normal voice.

"Our mark is Levitt James, an American judge."

If Ariadne had expected a shock, she was disappointed. She had no idea who this "Levitt James" character was, and by the look on Yusuf's face, she wasn't the only one.

But Arthur's chair had come to rest on all four legs and his eyebrows, rather than being angled down in confusion, were arched up in surprise.

"Wait," Yusuf held out a hand in the universal "Halt" command. "Who is Levitt James?"

This time it wasn't Eames who offered clarity. It was Arthur.

"Levitt James is my step-father."

* * *

_I know, I know. We haven't covered anything that isn't covered in the summary. But we will get to that in the later chapters._

_I hope that my writing style wasn't too distracting. Ariadne seems completely out of character in this chapter (*sniffle*) but we'll just accredit that to her acute sense of relief and jubilation to see her life-in-crime buddies again. Next chapter she will (hopefully) be back to her usual hyper-curious, but ultra-reserved self. C:_

_And for the record, this fic is not another adventure story. This story is more of a delve into Arthur's background than an extraction story. So, I hope you don't mind if the diction and the syntax are not as severe and serious as Inception was._

_Review, please. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, so I can make sure to do it right._

Notes for the accidentally confused.

(1)By football, I mean Soccer, for those of you in the USA like me. C: I just felt that since she lived in Europe she would call them "football games" rather than "soccer games" so as not to confuse the locals when she talked about them.


	2. Cats and Dogs

_Dedication goes to Maddox-Pointman for picking out the fact that Arthur's dad's name is the Arthur's actor's last name. [There were a lot of possessives in that sentence. C:] I'm super excited that someone picked that out. Plus, wouldn't it be awesome to grow up with that name? I think so. And since I think so, so should all of you. [Okay, I will now tone down my insufferable ego…]_

_So, fair warning. If my writing were a garbage truck (which I hope that it is not) this would be the chapter where it dumps all of the information. If that does not appeal to you, you can think of this information as recyclables, which makes it much less gross. However, I hope that there are enough Arthur moments for your tastes to keep you motivated to continue!_

_I don't foresee this being a terrible chapter, so don't be scared away!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Two

_Wherein Ariadne learns to appreciate dogs and cats_

* * *

Aridne wondered for a few crazy moments if Arthur had ever tried playing poker. He could make a fortune doing so, she decided. Because he seemed perfectly comfortable in his uncomfortable chair and his hands were tucked in his pockets and he didn't seem disturbed at all that they were going to break into his step-father's head. His face betrayed none of the emotion that even Ariadne was feeling. She was squirming on the bed, wondering how in the world she could agree to work a job that held a personal stake for one of the team members.

But Arthur was all business and forward progress.

"What's the job?" He asked in the same tone he talked about tuna casserole in. (Or at least Ariadne thought it would be. She had never heard him talk about tuna casserole.)

Eames studied him for a few seconds, ice eyes flickering from the four legs of the chair on the ground, to Arthur's face and he hands in his pockets. Then he continued.

"Levitt James is up for a seat in the American Supreme Court. Evidentially that's a pretty high job, and it is appointed, not elected."

Ariadne decided this was mostly for Yusuf, because she had learned all about the Supreme Court in tenth grade. She felt slightly nerd-like for remembering all of that information.

"However, the American government wants to make sure that their nomination is an honest, genuine individual without any deep secrets or ulterior motives. They're looking for a perfect man, and they think that James is the one." His eyes darted to Arthur, Ariadne noticed, but she didn't notice anything wrong with Arthur.

The thought struck Ariadne so swift and hard that she thought that it would fit under the "Freight train" classification of thoughts.

"Wait. You said that the United States is the one who is paying us to do this?" She was shocked like she had a fork in a socket.

The smile that broke over Eames face was one of pure delight. "That's right, love. We're working on the legal side of illegal now."

Ariadne quit her squirming for long enough to be shocked. She thought that other governments might ask for dream liaisons. She knew corporations would. But her own government? She had things to think about. It would be better than thinking of… well, certain people.

Said person, Arthur, pursed his lips. "So when do they need this information by?"

Eames shrugged. "They didn't say. I don't know when your politics decide things, but there wasn't a due date. I'm sure they'll get touchy if we don't get the information soon, but this shouldn't be another rush job."

From the way he said it, Ariadne got the feeling that he and Arthur had worked more than one rush job. And it had been far from pleasant. For a brief moment, Ariadne had an image of an Eames-and-Arthur piñata being beaten by corporate tycoons in suits. She shook her head and decided that she needed more sleep. Or less school. Or both.

Arthur continued to look less than upset. Just blank. And considering.

"So, a no rush job." He stood from his chair without looking at any members of his team. He seemed to be considering his shoes, but Ariadne knew that his mind was about as far away from them as China was. (And she knew he wasn't considering his shoes, seeing as how they gleamed like he had "considered" them all morning with a shoe brush and shine.) She could see the gears in his head turning, planning out what they were going to do to get the information they needed.

He walked to the closet where he had stashed blazer jacket not a few minutes before. He pulled it on at the same time that he pulled open the hotel door.

"I assume we will resume tomorrow morning," Arthur said as he readjusted the collar of his jacket with a practiced air that made Ariadne wonder how long he had been wearing suit coats. "Everyone should be thinking of ideas."

Eames snorted. "I'd say your best talent is shooting other people's ideas down. We'll let you plan; we'll end up using your idea anyway."

Arthur shot Eames a smile, and (Ariadne hoped) turned his eyes to let his gaze linger on her for a second.

He walked out the door. He didn't let it smash closed behind him.

The room was quiet and considering for a few seconds before Eames sighed and slouched down in his seat.

"Well, he took that worse than I expected."

Ariadne's neck pivoted so quickly around that it nearly boomeranged past the eighty degree rotation allowed to a human neck. She questioned Eames with her eyes, but he seemed content to lean back in his chair and cover his eyes. He looked about ready to crash. She hadn't even considered the fact that he might have been on a plane all day in order to get here.

But at that moment she was too preoccupied to offer any sympathy. As she made her farewells to the two men left in the hotel room, she found her mind working in double time.

Arthur had seemed normal to her. But what bugged her wasn't the fact that she hadn't been able to tell that he was upset, or so Eames had thought.

What was raging on her brain like a swarm of mosquitoes was the fact that she had worked with Arthur for three months and she had no idea what was going on behind his brick wall face (an attractive brick wall face.)

For a second, she felt like punching something. She was pleased to say that she didn't. At least not in public.

* * *

She had suspected the recess of their planning period would at least until the next day. So when she got home to her neat apartment (she had finally unpacked the last box a few weeks ago,) she found the largest pair of sweatpants that she owned, the largest tub of ice cream and the smallest spoon she had in her house and sat down to have an in-depth conversation with herself about her feelings. She had only eaten the strawberry part of the Neapolitan ice cream before her doorbell rang and she found herself standing in front of Arthur.

She had to look at him for a few seconds before she decided that (a) he was real, (b) he was standing outside of her apartment and (c) she did not have any ice cream on her face or shirt.

Arthur got straight to business. "I have a plan, and I want to run it past you first."

Ariadne counted back the minutes and realized that it had been forty-seven minutes since she had left the hotel and Arthur already had a plan. He needed to grease the cogs in his brain. The point man was moving at old-lady driving speeds.

Ariadne shut the door and turned to go change into something more… less sloppy… before she realized that there was now a door and a wall in-between her and Arthur. She turned back to the door and pulled it open, face a color of red that a cherry-tomato would be jealous of, if it had the cognitive abilities to be jealous.

"Uh, come in." She spoke to Arthur's eyebrows, which were high enough to hold up a bridge.

He stepped into her apartment and Ariadne was glad that she had remembered to clean her knitting off of the table. And her ramen noodle bowls. The ice cream was incriminating enough.

She hurried off to her room, telling him that she was going to change. In her room she was faced with the fact that, yes, she hadn't gone shopping in a while, and no, her new washer had not yet been paid a visit. She prodded at hangers and mulled over her limited options and told herself that it was practically sacrilege that she was living in one of the fashion capitals of the world and that this was the clothing she had to show for it.

When she returned to the more bearable parts of her house, she found that Arthur was not in the living room. Instead, he was in the kitchen, studying the magnets and pictures on her refrigerator. His hand was on the freezer handle, and it appeared that he had put her ice cream away for her. She was about to say thank you, but her words died on the tip of her tongue as he spoke.

"You're going to dinner in that?"

* * *

Before she was finally ready to leave, she had run back and forth from the bedroom to Arthur, peppering him with questions about seventy-three times. Yes, the restaurant was nice, yes, she should probably wear a dress. No, Converse would not fit in at said restaurant and no, the owner would not be offended if she wore a green dress.

When Ariadne was finally ready (not really, actually,) she felt a bit proud that she had managed to throw together an acceptable outfit in fifteen minutes. Then she realized that her dress was the same color green as Arthur's tie and she felt like she was at high school prom again. She shuddered, and hoped that the night would go better than that.

Business or not, tonight was not a night she did not want to ruin.

She found Arthur in her living room. He seemed to be having a staring contest with her fluffy white cat Freya, and Freya did not seem to be terribly interested in letting Arthur anywhere near her.

Ariadne raised an eyebrow and smothered a smirk as she surveyed the scene. "Not a cat person, I see?"

Arthur looked back over at her, completely nonplussed. "I guess I'm more of a dog person."

* * *

By the time they got to the restaurant—some opulent show of wealth and an extravagant façade—Ariadne wished that Arthur had told her that they would be walking. She wouldn't have worn heels and would have pulled her hair back. But the moment she fell in step behind a petite hostess, she felt completely comfortable in her choice of footwear. For one, she was rarely taller than anyone, and this hostess fell a few inches under Ariadne's not considerable height. And for another reason, she realized that at this place, any of her other shoes would have been pointed at and laughed at.

After taking in the mind boggling collection of the French language placed before her on the menu, the next thing she noticed was the prices. Her eyeballs nearly popped out of her head and onto her neighbor's plate (though judging by the look of what they were eating, they would never notice) until she realized with a start that she could now afford even the most expensive item on the menu. This surge of power made her wish that she had worn different shoes.

They spent the first few minutes ordering food. Ariadne just picked the first dish that had chicken in it (_poulet_ was chicken, right?) and had to point to it on the menu since she couldn't pronounce the name. Surprisingly, Arthur did too. Pointed at the menu, that was. Not order the first dish with chicken.

"I took German in high school." Ariadne told, rolling her eyes. "That does me no good here."

Arthur just nodded and offered, "I took Latin," before getting down to business.

"I'm running this plan past you because you have the most personal stake in this."

Ariadne didn't want to remind him that it was his step-father's brain they were going to invade. He seemed to have forgotten.

"So here's my idea. It would be easiest for us to perform the task at my family's house, so we need an excuse for all of us to be there. So, I'm going to pretend to be between jobs and I need a place to live until I find another job. They'll let me stay there."

Ariadne nodded, liking the sound of his plan. Except for one minor flaw. "We'll have to go shopping and get you some jeans. Men between jobs don't wear suits every day."

Arthur frowned for a few seconds, considering, before he said, "Suits can be dry-cleaned."

Ariadne shook her head. "Men between jobs can't afford to dry clean that many suits."

"I have a lot of suits." Arthur countered, eyebrows wrinkling.

Ariadne looked levelly at him over her water glass, willing him to see reason. He sighed, and crumpled his napkin. Then a spark lit up in his eyes, and Ariadne's dream of seeing Arthur in jeans was burned to a crisp.

"New plan. I am literally between jobs. I have just moved out of my apartment, but I need a place to stay until I start my new job. I'll work out where that new job is later," He pursed his lips, and Ariadne could tell that he had probably already worked it out in his brain. "Now this is where you come in."

Ariadne sat forward in her seat, excited to see what Arthur had thought up for her. (Or mostly excited that Arthur had spent any time thinking of her at all.)

"I will 'run into' you and Eames at the store and I'll bring you back to my house and introduce you to my parents. They've always wanted to meet some of my new friends."

Ariadne was both flattered and sad at the same time. She was glad that she was considered a friend of Arthur's but depressed that he could speak of his parents like that. It seemed he had a longer than normal distance relationship with them. However, one question remained in her brain.

Which was conveniently erased by the sight of her food.

"Is that it?" Ariadne asked, shocked as her plate was placed in front of her.

"No, there's more to the plan—" Arthur started, but Ariadne cut him off.

"No, I don't care about the plan. Look how much food this is!" She pointed to her food with the first fork she had grabbed (one of twelve, or so it looked.) "That chicken piece is the size of a goldfish."

Arthur laughed, and they tucked into their food, conversations of business replaced with conversations of pleasure.

* * *

"So, I fail to see how I have the largest personal stake in this plan," Ariadne said between mouthfuls of her quantity poor food. Her plate was nearly scrapped clean and she wished that the restaurant had served food on tea cup plates instead of what appeared to be (Barbie) doll sized plates.

Arthur had since finished his food (she noticed that he was a bit more particular with what fork he used; Stupid politically-influenced upbringing) and was leaning back on two legs of his chair. The legs of his chair dropped (dramatically) and he made a finger teepee below his chin before continuing the conversation that they had started ended when the food made its appearance.

"Um, well it would be highly unlikely that I would run into two random friends at the same store at the same time. Especially when one sounds British but is from Kenya, and the other has been in Paris studying for the last for years. So I had to come up with a way to connect the two of you."

Ariadne had yet to see a problem.

"So… I'm planning on having you and Eames pretend to be engaged."

And now Ariadne saw the problem.

"Me and Eames?" She spluttered, and was glad that she hadn't tipped her chair back like Arthur had. She would have been sprawled on the floor.

Arthur had the decency to be abashed. "I tried to think of another way, but you don't look enough alike to be siblings, so this was the only way. You'll be near my parent's house because the two of you are looking into living there after you… er… get married."

_It's only Eames, it's only Eames, it's only Eames_, Ariadne kept chanting over and over, but still she felt herself gagging a little bit. It wasn't that she didn't like Eames, or that she didn't find him attractive. Yes, he was slightly awkward (on purpose) at times, and he needed to be given a razor for Christmas, but the idea of pretending to get married to him was a bit too much for her to handle. That, and…

"Why couldn't I have pretended to get married to you?" Ariadne let the words slip out before she considered them, and instantly wished that her tongue had a net and she could pull them back into her mouth. Arthur's eyebrows returned to their "Well that was a dumb thing to do" position (Ariadne forced herself not to think of the Old Art Man when he did that) and Ariadne turned a red that made her and her green dress look like the perfect Christmas ornament.

"Because the next time I come to visit my parents, they'd wonder where you were." He answered.

She didn't know much about Arthur and his ways, but the way he didn't meet her eye made her wonder if he wasn't telling her something.

* * *

"The only problem with the plan is that it doesn't include Yusuf."

They had since finished their food (less than filling) and were on their way back to Ariadne's apartment. Ariadne hadn't realized how much of the day she had eaten up with buying the statue, but it felt like decades ago. The sun had set and was replaced by a Cheshire moon trying and failing to light the night sky much in the same way Ariadne was trying and failing to figure out what the problem was with Arthur for making her pretend to marry Eames.

"What do you mean? Do you not want Yusuf to be on the team?" Ariadne asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No, I definitely want him on the team. The problem is that on this job we don't need a chemist because we don't have a dream-within-a-dream situation. But it will good to have another hand around, especially if something were to do wrong."

"Like when you didn't figure out that Fischer's subconscious was militarized." Ariadne teased, but instantly she knew that she had hit a touchy spot. He fixed her with dagger eyes that she was glad didn't actually have a point, because she would be lying dead in a Paris street.

"That's hardly fair," Arthur countered after he sheathed his eye-daggers. "But anyway, I want him on the team. Eames does too, and I can hardly deny him that right when he was the one who got us this job."

Arthur smiled for a few moments, imagining something. "I think that Eames having a bit of fun with this one. Taking advantage of the American government and all. They'd basically do anything for this information, so Eames is getting as many people on the payroll as is possible. Anything to antagonize the American government. Anything to antagonize anyone, really." Arthur shook his head as if disgusted, but Ariadne could still see a smile there. "But it still doesn't solve the problem. Yusuf needs a part in our master play."

They swapped ideas for the remainder of the walk back to Ariadne's apartment lobby. In the end it was Ariadne who had the idea. Yusuf would be in town for a pharmaceutical conference. He had talked to Arthur the week before and the two of them had figured out that they would be in the same area at the same time. They would "meet for lunch" and that would be when Arthur and he would run into Eames and Ariadne at the store.

"You're a pretty creative cat," Arthur complemented her as they stopped in front of Ariadne's apartment.

Ariadne laughed at his usage of the 1960's slang. "Too bad you don't like cats," she teased.

"Eh," Arthur shrugged. "I don't hate all cats."

* * *

I'm starting to think that Ariadne has a shoe fixation. In every chapter I have her analyzing people's footwear…

I have also decided to update every Sunday. As I have told some of you, this will give me a whole week to prepare the story, then correct it Saturday, let it stew over night (and maybe let the ghosts that haunt my computer give it some flavor) before delivering it to you in a nice package on Sunday, warm and ready.

Please review! Let me know if you hate Ariadne, if you think Arthur (I always type "Arthru" when I'm writing it…) is a statue, or if you think that Eames could use some toning down or up. I'm pretty sure that Yusuf is perfect, so no worries there. [: Also, if there is some fluff you would like to see, I would love some ideas. I have some fluff planned out, but since this is a fluff-centric story, I could REALLY use some ideas.

Thanks to CJaMes12, Maddox-Pointman, spinningleaves, Crab Hole Cripple, .totem, Seressi10, PartyInTheBackBusinessUpFront, theYellowDello, SpinTopSchism, and Ella for reviewing this story. Ten people on the first chapter? 26 alerts? Jeez, I need to write more Inception fanfiction: This is where the good people are. You guys rock!


	3. Paper Weights

_Hullo world! I am actually writing this from my friend's computer. She is asleep and I have exhausted my back-up sources of entertainment. (AKA: checking my email and facebook stalking people. Unfortunately, Robot Unicorn Attack is too loud to play.) I am hoping that subtle tip-tapping of the keyboard's keys will wake her up. And if they don't, well, I'll have gotten a head start on your story! But I hope she wakes up soon, because I am HONGREE._

_Anywho, here I go!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Three

_Wherein Ariadne learns how much paper weighs_

* * *

Eames did not seem adverse to the marriage plan at all. He called it "stunning," and "a piece of art," and tried to give Arthur a pat on the head, but found that Arthur had since moved out of his presence and into the presence of his rather large screened laptop. Over the sound of the computer turning on, Arthur announced the plan of attack (no guns required.)

"The plan will go into effect tomorrow. I've already talked to my mother and father and they said that I would be welcome to stay at their house for a while." As he gave out directions, he faced each person in turn.

"We're all on different flights. We can't all be arriving on the same flight. That would arouse suspicion if they were to find our tickets."

Ariadne and Eames were to fly to Australia, where evidently "they had spent some time," and then they would fly to Los Angeles, and then from there they would fly to Virginia, where Arthur's family was located. Ariadne's mind swam at that thought of all of that flying and Arthur gave her a pitying look.

"Sorry Ariadne. But you need a back story. My parents know that I'm in Paris, so it wouldn't make sense if I didn't know that the two of you were coming to Virginia, too."

Ariadne nodded and swallowed, contemplating the fact that she would be up in the air for so long (major jet lag) and that she would be up in the air for so long with Eames. She looked at Eames and she could tell that he was thinking the same thing. (Although he didn't seem too bothered that he would be up in the air with himself for that long.)

"I suggest that you get to know each other a bit better while on the plane." Arthur said, handing a manila file folder to Ariadne. It weighed about the size of a large pumpkin and Ariadne had to stifle a laugh when Arthur said: "I thought up a few questions that you should ask each other. If you're going to act like you're going to be married, you need to know these things about each other."

Ariadne hoped that the questions were in large font. She flipped the file folder opened and realized that it was not. She shuddered to think how many questions there were. She shuddered even more when she realized that she would have to cover all of these questions with Eames. She spared him a glance and she saw that he was smirking. For a moment, she hated the man who never shaved.

Yusuf's plan was explained (he would come a few days later; luckily, there actually was a pharmaceutical conference nearby that week,) and the three (Ariadne, Eames and Yusuf) turned to go leave. There were many details to work out before they left, and they had to pack as well. Ariadne was trying to figure out who was going to be able to take care of her cat for an indefinite about of time and what excuse she could give her parents for not being able to come home as soon as she wanted, when Arthur called out her name.

"Ariadne?" Came the call from behind her. Since she was the last person out the door (so much for ladies first) it was no trouble for her to turn right around and face him. Embarrassingly fast.

"Yes?" She asked, and Arthur beckoned her over. He was sitting at a desk at the far end of the room, so she shut the door behind her and made her way over to him.

"Give me your hand," He ordered, reaching into his desk drawer as he spoke. Ariadne crinkled her eyebrows and stuck out her right hand, wondering if she had any dirt under her fingernails. She hoped she didn't.

"Wrong hand," Arthur commented, and when Ariadne saw the tiny, velvet covered box, Ariadne realized why Arthur needed her left hand. She groaned and backed away.

"Not already!" Ariadne complained. She hadn't thought of a ring, but she realized now that she would need one. She also realized that she was not looking forward to the weight of the ring on her finger.

Arthur laughed and popped open the box. "I know. I'm ruining a little girl's dream."

He pulled out the ring and gestured to her hand. With a self-sympathetic sniff, Ariadne unwillingly held out her left hand. Arthur slipped the ring onto her finger, and held up her hand so that she could admire it.

"If it helps, just think of it as the most expensive gift you've ever gotten."

That was certainly the truest thing she had ever heard. It was silver, and simple, but so finely crafted and exquisitely set that Ariadne suddenly felt like she had an entire bank looped around her left ring finger. If it hadn't been her (fake) wedding ring, she would have "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed over it. But it _was_ her (fake) wedding ring, and she guessed that the most correct place for this ring was back on its fake white finger at whatever jewelry shop Arthur had purchased it at.

Ariadne scowled at Arthur, "It's the most expensive gift I've ever gotten, yes. But it's from Eames. Eames." She stressed. She didn't hate Eames. She just hated the situation they were thrown together in. And how well he could handle it.

"Well, if it makes you feel better, you can tell yourself that this one is from me. I was the one that bought it after all."

Suddenly the ring on her finger didn't feel so heavy. And maybe the white finger back at the jewelry shop had a new ring on it, and it would be a hassle to return this one. And Ariadne decided that if she ever became President of the United States, she would make it illegal for men to have as soft of hands as Arthur. Because he was still holding her hand up so that she could see her ring, and she wasn't looking at her ring anymore, but rather at the fact that he didn't have dirt under his fingernails. Because they were still (kind of) holding hands.

"Well, it's time I go figure out what to do with my cat. And what to do with all of my laundry. It is currently the only carpet in my apartment." Ariadne retracted her tingling hand out of Arthur's fingers. "And what I'm going to tell my parents."

Arthur stared at her for a few seconds before returning his attention to his computer. The background was a picture of a bridge and for a minute Ariadne wondered if the picture was a default picture, or if Arthur had taken the time to go on the internet to find a picture for the background of his computer. Or, she thought with a start, maybe he had taken the picture with his free time. Ariadne couldn't picture Arthur with free time. But she supposed he had it.

"Just tell them you're spending time with friends." He suggested. He looked up at her and smiled a half smile. "Sometimes it's easier to tell the truth."

Ariadne cursed his logic, before she was distracted by another thought. "Does Eames have a ring?" Then a ghastly idea occurred to her. "You _are_ _not_ going to make me buy one for him, are you?"

Arthur chuckled again, and leaned back in his chair while loosening his tie. "No, don't worry there. I told him last night that he could go out and buy one himself. I didn't feel like putting forth the effort to purchase a ring for him."

Ariadne rolled her eyes (her normal reaction when she couldn't think up something witty to say) and inwardly breathed a sigh of deep relief. She could only imagine the questions she would get from the man at the counter. ("_When's the wedding; do you have your dress planned? Colors, dear, colors!"_)

"Did you tell Eames this last night at dinner, too?" She teased.

Arthur scoffed. "I only take people I like to dinner."

Ariadne walked away from the room a few minutes later, all ideas of switching the ring from her left to right finger banished from her brain. Instead, she wondered if firing machine guns made hands soft. Because, during the Fischer job, Arthur had seemed more comfortable with a machine gun than he would have ever been with lotion.

* * *

Most of the things Ariadne learned about Eames, she would never be able to remember. Even their similarities (they both had a little brother, their fathers drove a black car) were hard things to remember. Eames seemed to remember her quirks more than she was able to remember his, but she figured this had to do something with his job as the Forger.

His favorite food was… pudding? She learned more about the man across the aisle from her on her flight from Sydney (where she and Eames had spent a day to take pictures to document their "trip") to Los Angeles, during one of the infrequent times Eames fell asleep on the plane. The man was a regular passenger; he told her when she struck up a conversation. He had gotten free airfare for all of his life and he used it on a weekly basis. Almost like Fischer.

Who was also on the plane with them. Ariadne had dared Eames to take a picture of Fischer, for old time's sake. Which Eames had done. Ariadne had to giggle when he did that. Things were back to normal between the two of them, goofing off like small, adolescent boys, until Ariadne looked back down at her finger (and the ring) and realized that she should be mad at the predicament they were in. She found she was unable to be mad. She fought back a surge of pride.

* * *

"Here's one thing Arthur didn't cover." Eames said when they were twenty-nine pages into their question and answer ceremony. "Why did you pick Paris? There are plenty of Architecture schools in the States."

Ariadne shrugged. "I was originally going to a school in Massachusetts, but I did a study abroad my freshman year to Paris. I guess I just never really went home after that. I applied to the school in Paris and, magically, I got in. I do show great promise as an architect, you know." She said to Eames, who had his eyebrows quirked up in the "I hardly believe you" position.

"Uh-huh…" Eames said. "I can't imagine you just switching were you live all on whim."

"I'm a lot more spontaneous than you'd think, Eames." She shot back. He looked back down at the papers and Ariadne suddenly had a burst of understanding.

It wasn't that Eames couldn't imagine _her_ switching where she lived on a whim. He couldn't picture _anyone_ moving away from home just because they could. Ariadne felt a dull sort of hollowness for Eames and his companions when she realized that where they lived depended on if they did their job correctly. If their job was successful, they could stay at "home" a little longer. If they didn't, well, they were lucky if they got to call a moving truck before they had to skip the country.

"Oh, wait, he did cover it. A few pages ahead: Question two-hundred and fifty-two: "Why did you study in Paris?" Eames shook his head. "Stupid man. Always thinking of everything."

Ariadne realized with a sinking feeling that they were only on question ninety-two. She wished that Jack, the man who never stopped flying, would talk to her and distract her from Eames.

* * *

The DC airport was as much of a pain in the butt as Yusuf was when he didn't get morning coffee. Eames seemed content—and amused—to let Ariadne try to find her way out of the airport, citing his "inability to figure out stupid American airports." Ariadne was just about to spit out that all the airport signs were written in _English_, his native language, but she decided halfway through that that would just give him fodder for his teasing fire. That, and she had spotted the way out, and Eames was already ahead of her, hailing a taxi.

From the Taxi to the DC underground to a public bus, it took two long hours to get to the sleepy little town of Occoquan, Virginia, where Arthur's parents lived. Ariadne was surprised that there was such a little town so close to DC. It was forty-five minutes away from DC, but the terrible traffic and the bus's slow speed lent itself to the two hour commute (and last minute Eames-information cram session.)

And so Ariadne found herself on Mill Street, Occoquan, Virginia, with one suitcase, one backpack and her purse, steeling herself to commit an illegal act on the payroll of the American Government, against a man who might be her judge if this all went wrong.

Eames seemed to have no such qualms, as he extended the handle of his suitcase and started to walk down the sidewalk. "Come on Ariadne," He called. "We're supposed to meet Arthur-stick-in-the-mud at the supermarket in a few minutes. That bus ride took a lot longer than I expected." He let out a deep breath. "We were supposed to have checked into our hotel already. We'll just have to do that after we 'run into Arthur.'"

Ariadne thought that people might be suspicious when the two of them walked into the supermarket (it should have been called a mini-mart, it was so small. It was hardly super-sized) but the man at the (single) register, smiled and waved them in.

Ariadne was looking at the very limited supply of Peanut Butter and weighing the pros and cons of waving it in Eames's face (Pro: look of terror. Con: allergic breakout if she dropped the jar) when a finger tapped her on the shoulder. She twisted around (and managed to catch the peanut butter before it tumbled to the floor) to see who in the world was tapping her on the shoulder in a place where she had no connections.

She shouldn't have been surprised: it was Arthur.

What did surprise her was the hug that he swept her up into. She had always though him to be a scrawny man, but she now had to scratch that out of her notes on him. He was strong enough to pick her up and spin her around. Very un-Arthur like.

"Ariadne! What are you doing here? I thought you and Eames were in Australia."

Oh, right. This is where they began their careers as actors.

"Oh! Yeah!" Ariadne began quite lamely. "We just came back from there! What in the world are _you_ doing here?"

But Arthur was cut off as Eames came walking up the aisle with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. He greeted Arthur with a slap on the back, which was followed by a "man hug." Ariadne watched them carefully, waiting for a gag, to show the disgust at pretend chumminess, but the two of them kept in character pretty well. They started small talking and Arthur _insisted_ that the two of them come meet his parents. In fact, he went so far as to steal Ariadne's suitcase and start to wheel it out of the store, gesturing for them to come along.

Eames held out his hand, and this time it was Ariadne's turn not to break character. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose and clutched Eame's hand.

His hand was not soft. Nor was he wearing a tie.

* * *

Arthur's family lived in the most rural house that a person could find an hour away from Washington DC. Which was to say that it was a house ten minutes from town and surrounded by so many trees that even their neighbors five miles up Union Street wouldn't notice if they lit off fireworks. As they pulled up Arthur's family's (mile long) driveway, Ariadne simultaneously saw the largest house she had ever seen in a clearing that must have taken days to clear even with machines, and a woman with black hair that had to be Arthur's mother.

But she stopped puzzling on this part of Arthur's life when she stepped out of the car and Arthur's mother came walking up to her son, a puzzled expression contrasting with her son's smiling face. She didn't even notice when Arthur's father stepped out onto the large wrap-around porch.

Because something else had taken her attention.

Arthur had a dog.

* * *

_For those who are wondering, Occoquan, Virginia, is a real town. I have never been there, and I am curious as to how so small a town is able to remain so small when located so near the Capital of the United States of America. But I will not question, nor will I ponder. I will just use it as a place setting for my story. C:_

_We have a cameo appearance in this chapter! Can anyone tell me who it might be? I'll dedicate the next chapter to you! Hint: it is not an Inception character._

_Thanks to Cortexikid, PC (Hiii!), Olivia, Mai x Mai, L.C. Li, LoquaciousLilLovely, Katie, Crab Hole Cripple, RaifandRosefan , browneyes2themax, Star-crossed92, Luthienuviel, Daydreamer2010, and Legal-Assassin-006_

_3,000 words exactly. Score._


	4. Top Tier

_And here I go, starting on the next chapter!_

_About reviews: If you don't something I'm doing, please just tell me. I don't want to fish around in the dark for things I think people will like and in the end catch a rock instead of a fish. What I mean is, I'm writing this story for y'all and if y'all don't like it, I want to know what will make this story worth your time! (Have you ever heard of an author asking for flames? Brazen, I know…. But if you want to say nice things, please do!)_

_Dedication goes to Legal-Assassin-006. I will explain below!_

_

* * *

**Ties**_

Chapter Four

_Wherein Ariadne actually likes sleeping on the top bunk_

* * *

Arthur had a dog. He had a dog. Was this shocking? No. He had said himself that he was more of a dog person, and there had to be a basis for that bias. And here it was, sitting before her, tongue lulling out of its mouth and stumpy tail trying to wag as it sat.

But still, it was shocking, even if it shouldn't have been. "Arthur" and "dog" shouldn't have even been in the same sentence, unless Eames was involved and an insult was being thrown around. One look at Arthur and his immaculate suits, his Windsor tie knot and his pristine loafers and maybe "Taxidermy animal head" might come into her brain as a possible pet for Arthur.

This particular dog was very much alive, as he tried to scramble up her jean leg and attack the scarf that was dangling tantalizingly close. She was glad that it was a little bull dog, because if it was any taller, the trajectories for the slobber coming out of its mouth would have been right and she would have ended up with some of it in her face. From the way Eames was rubbing his face, she guessed he had already fallen victim to nature's way with gravity and falling drool.

Ariadne was distracted from giggling at Eames' fate when Arthur's arm suddenly slung around her shoulders.

"This is Ariadne," He was saying to his mother. Obviously Ariadne had missed something in her one-track thought process about the surprise pet. Keeping the blush off of her cheeks was like keeping flies away from fruit—practically impossible. Especially after what Arthur said next.

"I worked with her a lot my last job; she's basically my best friend."

_Well _that_ was out of character_, Ariadne thought. But she found that she didn't mind that it was out of character for Arthur. She only hoped that his arm didn't catch fire from the excessive heat coming off of her face.

Still, she was going to have a word with Arthur… later.

Next to her, Eames cleared his throat and Arthur hurriedly retracted his arm.

"Ah, and this is Eames. The two are engaged." He quickly explained.

Ariadne and Eames quickly shook hands with Arthur's parents (_mother and step-father_, Ariadne quickly reminded herself.) Eames had casually linked hands with Ariadne (_It's just Eames, it's just Eames_) and as he shook hands with Arthur's mother he winked at her.

"You might be interested to know that your son set us up," Eames said slyly.

Arthur's mother chuckled and swatted her son on the shoulder. "That's my boy: always had an eye."

Ariadne nearly gagged and the twitch that she felt from Eames' hand made her wonder what in the world he was thinking about. Hopefully he was wondering (sarcastically) what Arthur had seen to pair the two of them up. Because that was what Ariadne was thinking.

Arthur (thankfully) had the foresight to steer the conversation away from _those_ shark-infested waters and into safer harbors. Namely, giving a name to his previously nameless mother.

"Ariadne and Eames, I'd like you to meet my mother, Dora James. And this is my father, Levitt James."

"Step-father," Levitt James corrected, reaching over his wife's shoulder to shake hands with Ariadne and Eames. There was no malice in his voice and the way he smiled over at Arthur made it very clear that, while there was no biological connection between two, there was an emotional and familial tie that kept the two close.

"He refuses to adopt me." Arthur explained, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to point to the older but equally lean man.

The old man laughed a few deep, hearty chortles, and offered the group a quick half-smile before turning to walk back up the steps of the monstrous house.

"Well Arthur," Levitt James (Ariadne felt like a flight attendant, calling him that over and over,) called over his shoulder. "You may as well bring your friends into the house to get them situated."

Eames shot Ariadne a concerned look and Ariadne shot him a concerned look right back. _Situated_… that did not sound like a good verb.

* * *

The room had one bed. One. _Uno_. _Jeden_.

"You guys can put your baggage up here," Mrs. James said, patting a shelf in a closet that was a few feet above her perky grey haircut. "There are hangers in the closet, too, if you have any suits to hang up, like my son."

She offered Arthur a scathing look (was Ariadne the only one not bothered by his three-piece suits?) which was promptly ignored by her son in the face of more pressing matters.

"Wait, wait, wait." He held up both hands, ordering his head-strong mother to stop at once (being head-strong was an inherited trait, obviously.) "What are you doing?"

His mother turned around and when she was met with three very confused faces, she added her own confused face to the now collected group.

"I'm setting up a room for your friends!" She announced, setting her hands on her hips.

"Oh!" Ariadne let that escape her mouth before she was able to cage it. "No, really you don't have to! We were going to check into a hotel. We don't want to intrude on your time with Arthur before he leaves to…." And here Ariadne had to cut off, because she still didn't know what Arthur's new job was. Or where he was jetting off to.

"Nonsense." Mrs. James said in a no-nonsense way. "When Arthur leaves for Rome you won't see him for a while either. I insist that you stay at our house so that you can enjoy these last few days with Arthur, too."

The second twitch from Eames' hand lead Ariadne to believe that one of the main reasons for staying at a hotel was so that he wouldn't have to "enjoy these last few days with Arthur."

And then Mrs. James started laying blankets out at the foot of the (singular) bed and Ariadne realized that she very much wanted to remove her hand from Eames' and herself from this situation.

Because there was only one bed. And she was stuck living at this house, and engaged to Eames.

Arthur spoke words of a herald angel. "They aren't living together yet. Old world values."

He jerked his head toward the bed and then toward Ariadne and Eames, who had dropped each other's hand when they had gotten too clammy. Ariadne was simultaneously trying to ignore the urge to hug Arthur for saving her life and resist the urge to wipe her hand on her jeans.

"Well why didn't you say so in the first place?" Arthur's mother said, as she continued to stack blanket after blanket onto the bed. Arthur shot her a look that very clearly said "because they weren't supposed to stay here."

"Well, Ariadne, you can stay in here. Eames, you'll have to stay in Arthur's room with him. It's the only other room with an extra bed, besides our daughter's room."

* * *

Such plans were halted when it was realized that Eames' feet would stick over the edge of the bed. It was a bunk bed (Ariadne instantly loved bunk beds and the fact that Arthur _had_ bunk beds) and Mrs. James was worried that "Eames' dear back would wake up hurting in the morning if he slept on that bed."

The look on Arthur's face told Ariadne that he wished he hadn't introduced Eames as a friend. Arthur's mother would not appreciate the comment that he was about to say, and she would tell him to treat his friends better. So he muttered something about Eames' feet and what he could do with them and Ariadne felt the need to step in and distract Mrs. James from throwing the eye daggers she had trained on her son. Obviously the woman had ears not usually gifted to humans because they were generally reserved for birds of prey, like owls. The look on her face told Ariane that she had heard. All too well.

"I'll stay up here." All three heads swiveled to look at her (Levitt James had since disappeared) and Ariadne suddenly wondered what in the world she was thinking. "I'm a lot shorter than Eames and honestly, I love bunk beds. I don't even mind sleeping on the top bunk." She gave a thumbs-up that she thought added a lot of class to her sentence.

Mrs. James shrugged and ordered Arthur to get Ariadne's bags upstairs. She also announced that dinner would be ready in forty-five minutes, so they'd better unpack fast.

* * *

As Ariadne accompanied Arthur up the fifteen wooden steps to the next floor, Arthur sighed and said, "Well, I guess this works out better anyway."

Ariadne, who had been trying to get her suitcase away from Arthur, gave up and entered into the conversation as well. "What do you mean?"

"You staying at my house." He answered as they crested the top of the stairs. "It'll give you more time to get to know the house. Details, you know?"

Ariadne realized that he was talking about the job again and she wondered if she would ever have a conversation with him that wasn't related to working. Back on the Fischer job they had spent pretty much every moment together, but they had been across the way at different desks. Aside from Cobb, Arthur was the person she had spent the most time talking to while working. Part out of a desire to talk to him and another because he needed her to be as detail oriented as possible. He had been her teacher.

But all they had talked about was work.

"Plus," Arthur said, continuing their old conversation. "Now I won't have to choke down as much tuna casserole."

"You don't like tuna casserole?" Ariadne asked, pulling open Arthur's bedroom door for him.

He cringed. "Hate it. But my mother insists that I secretly do like it. So every time I come home, I get tuna casserole for dinner my first night back."

"I wonder if she's trying to scare you off?" Ariadne teased and Arthur gave his customary half smile. She hated that he could be so adorable.

"My mother couldn't scare off a squirrel."

Ariadne wondered if he had actually ever seen his mother's dagger eyes.

* * *

Ariadne didn't see what Arthur had against tuna casserole. She thought it tasted fine (much better than some French dishes she had been forced to choke down) and very… homey. She hadn't had a home cooked meal to eat in a few years, mostly because she had been the one cooking for herself and she _did not_ cook home cooked meals.

They had eaten a late dinner and it was eleven o'clock before Arthur's (step) father allowed them to go off to bed. They were submitted to a question and answer session (as a judge, Ariadne figured this was a regular behavior for him) about how their life had been for the last week. Ariadne rolled her eyes (secretly) at first when they were called into the comfortable living-room and were ordered to perch on the boxy white couches. She reasoned that she would be subjugated to listen to a very long discussion about how Arthur had been and what he had been doing. Then she realized that this was actually something that she really wanted to hear, so she stopped her (secret) eye rolling and dashed forward to the couch.

What proceeded was a very squished conversation between Arthur and Eames. The cushions were very worn and comfortable, but they had the very uncomfortable habit of sliding people toward the center. And Ariadne happened to be in the center. So while Arthur's (step) father questioned all of them, not just Arthur, she felt a sense of claustrophobia explode in her, which she was able to ignore because she was learning a lot about Arthur. And was having to tell Arthur's parents about how she had met Arthur. And what she had done for the last twenty-three years of her life. And what her favorite soccer team was. And how many steps it took to get to work. And how many toothbrushes she had owned and how many of those had been eaten by her cat.

Everything.

* * *

Bunk beds, she realized as she tossed and turned for the twenty-ninth time, were not as comfortable as she remembered them being when she was a child. She realized now that the only good thing about bunk-beds was turning them into forts. The top bunk was completely useless and only served to make her sea sick in her sea of distress whenever Arthur reconfigured his sleeping arrangement.

"If I barf on you, I'm sorry," she said to the room at large, hoping that Arthur wasn't asleep.

There was a grunt and a rustle of bed cloths before Arthur answered with "Eh, if you end up throwing up you won't hit me. Wrong trajectories."

Ariadne wondered what it was with today and the trajectories of body matter, but she didn't bring that up. Instead she brought up a better point.

"You're in the splash zone buddy. I'd beware. If you keep moving around you'll have to fetch _all_ of your household cleaning supplies."

Arthur snorted, but he didn't move around anymore. Ariadne was thankful for this because she was able to think straight for the first time since she had bedded down. And this is what her brain came up with.

"How much of what you told them was true?"

Arthur grunted again (making it possible for Ariadne to believe that maybe he was descended from cave men like she was) and from below she heard. "How much of what?"

"What you told your parents today in our… er… _discussion_ after dinner. How much of it was true. I just think it's weird that you come home and your parents love you, but you have to tell them stories to make sure that they stay safe." She took a breath. "So, how much of it was true?"

"I told you before Ariadne," Arthur's voice was muffled, like he was face down on his pillow. "It's best just to tell people the truth. I told them as much of the truth as I could. I had to tell them stories, yes, but I only told them one outright lie."

"Oh," Ariadne resisted quirking her eyebrow. She thought that was becoming an overused facial expression. "And what was that one lie?"

"That I liked my Mother's tuna casserole."

Ariadne had to giggle and below her, she heard Arthur chuckle too, in his manly way. She could picture his half smile and suddenly it occurred to her that she was sleeping in the same room as Arthur.

"So, how much of what you told my parents was true. Did you actually pet a penguin when you were seven?" Arthur asked.

"Like you told me before, Arthur," Ariadne spoke into the air above her. "It's best just to tell people the truth. I told mostly the truth. I only told them one outright lie."

Arthur, thankfully did not snort again. "Oh, and what was that?"

"That I love bunk beds."

There was a moment of silence, then a sentence.

"I dunno," Arthur said from below, seeming to consider the bunk beds in question, and this time his voice wasn't muffled. "I kind of like them."

Ariadne crinkled her noise. "What sane adult likes bunk beds? What are you Arthur, some kind of masochist?"

"No," He seemed to consider again. "I find I'm more of a sadist." And with that, he began rolling around and jumping and bouncing on the lower portion of the bed, causing the top bunk to sway back and forth like a ship caught in a tornado and hurricane all at once.

If Ariadne hadn't been having such a good time giggling and protesting his antics and trying not to fly off of her bed, she would have been sick. But both of them were laughing, almost teary eyed, so she wasn't.

A half hour later, Ariadne was almost asleep when she realized that she still had a question to ask Arthur.

"Hey, Arthur. If you're all about honesty with your family, why did you tell them I was your best friend?"

There was a moment of quiet before a single word was offered up.

"Eames."

But before Ariadne was able to ask what he meant by that, she was asleep, dreaming fond dreams of bunk beds, penguins and a world without Eames.

* * *

The next day, Ariadne realized why she hadn't been allowed to sleep in Arthur's Sister's room.

* * *

_So! Our cameo appearance from last chapter was Jack as many of you guessed. C: However, no one managed to guess which Jack it was. I never realized how many Jacks there were in movies. But the Jack I was thinking of was Jack Shepherd from ABC's LOST. I don't know how many of you watch that show, but he gets free airfare from Oceanic because of… well… I don't want to ruin it for you. C: Just know that he flies from Sydney to Los Angeles pretty much every week. C:_

_I dedicated the chapter to Legal-Assassin-006 because s/he came up with Jack from Titanic. I thought that was actually a really good guess. Seeing as how we have a lack of Cobb in this story, and seeing as how Jack is played by DiCaprio, we would have a throw-back to our own missing Cobb! C: Exciting._

_This chapter was really hard to write for some reason. The ideas were not flowing, neither was my writing. Please tell me that this chapter wasn't hideous. Or please tell me that you enjoyed it. Or tell me what you want to see that you haven't seen yet. Remember, I actually like flames as long as they are instructive. I just really want to know what y'all want to see. I am not review hungry, if that is what you are thinking right now. This is already a really successful story (talk about counting my eggs before they've hatched) so I want to make sure that you people get to see what you want to see! I don't want you wasting your time!_

_I promise you that action will happen in the next chapter. Or so I plan…. I am getting this chapter up 35 minutes before midnight. So it still counts as Sunday!_

_Thanks to Crab Hole Cripple, FreakXing** (I think I'll tackle our question next week! C:) **DaCupCakePhiles, SpinTopSchism, L. C. Li, Luthienuviel, Jazzy'sgirl112108, Mai X Mai, and Legal-Assassin-006 for their reviews! Y'all made this break from school not so crappy! It was a tough week and you guys made it bearable!_


	5. Greenday

_Working on shorter A/Ns._

_Dedication goes to **FreakXing **for getting me thinking on the subject for this chapter. C: I tried to write you back, but you've disabled PMs…_

_PS: this is totally un-beta-ed. Sorry people. But I wanted to get it out by Sunday!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Five

_Wherein the subject of Greenday is brought up_

* * *

She was tall. And thin. And just as dark featured. She shared a grace with Arthur that Ariadne wasn't sure where it found its roots, since their mother wasn't at all graceful. She was also incredibly sneaky.

Because when Ariadne fell asleep that night and dreamed about a lack of Eames, she wasn't there.

When Ariadne woke up in the morning she realized that, not only was Eames still around, but there was a new member at the family household.

And Arthur did not look at all pleased.

Granted, he always had a…. not really a frown. But an appraising look was always fixed on his face. But now his mouth had a definite droop to the corners and his _eyebrows_—oh his _eyebrows_. They looked as if they were trying to recreate the Mariana Trench on his face. Ariadne, for a wild moment upon walking down the stairs that morning, was suddenly struck with the desire to offer him lotion. She didn't want the wrinkles—formed from crinkling his eyebrows—to leave permanent damage.

The girl was perched on a bar stool when the two of them walked down the next morning. Ariadne had already taken the time to mention to Arthur that he had pillow lines on his face and Arthur had already mentioned to her that she might want to brush her hair if she wanted to be accepted into polite company. Arthur had set down the steps without so much as a look at his toothbrush or his closet, so Ariadne had thought that it would be fine to descend the fifteen wooden steps into the kitchen without rearranging her appearance.

The girl in her pyjamas made her wish that maybe she had at least pulled her hair back into a semi-presentable ponytail instead of letting it stick to her cheek with drool like she had it now.

The girl and her mother were chatting over the island in the middle of the country kitchen while Mrs. James systematically flipped golden pancake after golden pancake to brown on their other side. Ariadne was halfway through jabbing her elbow into Arthur's side, wondering who the new girl was, when she noticed that his attention was diverted and would not be answering her questions any time soon.

She also decided that, maybe, if she waited and watched, she would figure out who this mysterious figure was by means of observation.

The girl had obviously heard the two of them traipsing in, and she swiveled on her bar stool to see just who the intruders were.

Her pretty face and happy nose were enough to send Ariadne crawling back up the stairs and under her covers. Ariadne was never one for being over obsessed with clothing or appearance. But this girl obviously took great stock in looking nice. She had on an appraising face—so much like Arthur's—and from the disgruntled look displayed by her perky nose she did not like what she was seeing.

Until she looked up at Arthur and her owl-sized eyes widened at the same rate as her smile. She nearly sent the bar stool flying into the far wall in her flurry to get off the stool and into her brother's arms.

"ARTHUR!" She squealed, and Ariadne realized that she managed to pull off the pig squeal quite nicely where Ariadne hadn't been able to. Ariadne held back a disgruntled grunt, for fear of making herself appear less civilized than she already was. While this girl and her raven black hair was hugging Arthur and jumping up and down around his feet, Ariadne plopped herself down on a stool and poured herself a glass of Orange Juice. She tried not to feel too sorry for herself.

"Mother!" Arthur nearly roared. Ariadne, who had spent a lot of time catching pencils that fell of her desk, was able to grab her orange juice glass before it smacked down onto the counter as she jumped in surprise.

The same happy fate was not to be shared with the stack of pancakes that had been on the spatula when Mrs. James had jumped. They toppled to the floor with a few soft thuds that were mixed with a "meep!" from the tall, dark haired girl.

"Arthur!" his mother roared back, stooping to pick up the pancakes from the floor. The dog had already come sniffing, and Ariadne saw him retreat to a corner with a pancake poking out from below his droopy lips.

"What is Rachel doing home?" He gave his sister a quick, distracted hug, then moved to the counter to hear just what his mother had to say.

This Rachel girl did not look impressed that she had been left by her brother with only a halfhearted hug but appeared bright enough not to press the matter. She righted her chair (Ariadne realized with an inward groan that she had managed to pick the chair right next to her) and perched there again, the epitome of a cultured lady. Even in her pyjamas.

"I called your sister last night to let her know that you were going to be home for a bit." Arthur's mother explained, doling more batter onto the griddle. "She wanted to come and see you before you were off!"

Rachel, next to Ariadne, nodded her head slightly and cut her pancake into forths. She seemed about as precise as Arthur was with menial things like that. Looking to her left, she realized that, yes, Arthur had cut his pancakes into fourths. To switch things up, Ariadne just cut off part of her pancake and stuffed it in her mouth. It felt good do rebel.

Eames came through the door at that point, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and hitching up his pinstriped pyjama bottoms. He patted Ariadne on the head as he passed her, greeted the world with a "Pleasant morning to everyone!" and plopped down at the last chair available at the island. His eyes widened when he realized that he was sitting next to a new face.

"And who is this?" He asked, looking from face to face with a slightly amusing look on his face.

"This, Eames, is my sister." Arthur said in an off-hand manner. "Her name is Rachel, and she's here visiting me before I leave."

Eames didn't blink for a few seconds as he considered, and then shrugged. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. Ariadne took an example from Eames and she too added her hand to the pile to be shook.

While Rachel seemed pleasant enough while she chirped her greetings to Eames, there was a hard look in her eye when she looked at Ariadne. She didn't know if she was imagining it, but the handshake seemed a bit too firm and the greetings a bit too curt.

"Arthur, I know you want to spend your days with your friends and family," Mrs. James seemed unperturbed by the fact that her son was sending eye daggers her way. "But, really, I need you to clean out your room. I know there's stuff in there that you don't want me to touch, and really, it's been four years since you've been home. I think you can let go of some of your high school stuff."

"Oh, sure! I'll get to work on that right now." Arthur's face slid from disgruntled to delighted faster than it took an internet page to load. "I'll have to have _Ariadne_ move her stuff. Maybe _Eames_ can help her."

From the way that Arthur stressed their names, she guessed that he wasn't actually excited to clean his room and had other reasons to get them upstairs. But his mother didn't notice anything, except to say, "Oh, Arthur dear. I'm sure you can be a gentleman and help Ariadne move her things."

"Oh, mum, it's okay," Eames told her, up-ending the entire powdered sugar bottle onto his four pancakes. "I'll help my fiancée if she needs it."

For some reason, Rachel looked a lot more relaxed after that.

* * *

After a breakfast filled completely with mother-daughter conversations and much picking at food, Ariadne excused herself with a repressed sigh of relief. She cited her need for a shower, and, after Mrs. James had told her where every towel in the house was, she escaped up the stairs and into Arthur's bathroom.

It was obvious that Arthur hadn't been home in a while. The shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom were expired (Ariadne didn't even know that hair care products were able to expire) and the towels over the rack were slightly brittle. She thought this odd, considering the otherwise immaculate condition of the house (to prove her point, she heard Mrs. James down stairs ordering everyone but Eames to clean their dishes "this minute") but she figured that Arthur would have told his mother not to go through his things.

After all, if he had such a shady adult life, who knew what secrets he was hiding upstairs in his room.

* * *

"Geometry homework?" Eames inquired, holding up a badly ripped and browned sheet of notebook paper.

Arthur gave it a single, calculating look, then waved it off. "That's not Geometry. Algebra II. But sure, get rid of it. I don't know why I kept it anyway."

The three, plus Rachel, were upstairs in Arthur's room, cleaning out what looked like seven years of collected papers, CDs and posters. Arthur had tried and failed to keep Rachel out of his room, but the girl had barged in with cookies a few minutes later and hadn't left since. She had fluttered up onto Arthur's top bunk (Ariadne's bed) and was sifting through a stack of AP Bio notes from Arthur's junior year.

"I guess this was before portable USB drives?" Ariadne motioned to all of the papers scattered across Arthur's room. He seemed so concise with details, and she guessed that that included keeping every paper he had ever come across. Still, she thought he would be smart enough to at least throw away the popsicle stick she had found buried under a pile of Nirvana CDs.

Arthur nodded and was about to say something when Rachel sang out an announcement.

"Oh Arthur! I found a note you might want to read. It's from Bianca!"

Arthur was up like a shot and ripping the paper out of his sister's hands. "Rachel," he said through clenched teeth. "I love you. You are an awesome smaller sibling. But you are about to drive me up a wall and off of a cliff."

Rachel's teasing face didn't lessen at all, and instead she shrugged. "I see Bianca can still get to you, even after all these years."

She swung her legs off of the bunk bed and landed on the floor with a soft thud that wasn't proportional to her height.

"I'm going to call Summer, see if she's still in town," she said in an off-hand manner.

And with that, Rachel glided out of the door.

Arthur made sure the door was locked after her. He let out a breath that puffed out his cheeks, and he slid down his door to the floor. His fingers were to his temples and the look on his face was something Ariadne couldn't place. Relief? Frustration?

"Sorry for my sister," he said as he rubbed his temples. He realized what he was doing, and dropped his hands to his side like he didn't know what he was supposed to do with them.

"It's fine," Ariadne soothed, right as Eames answered the question that was really on her mind.

"Who is Bianca?" Eames asked in a tone that Ariadne knew wasn't simply curious. "Who is Bianca, Arthur?"

"My girlfriend in high school." He shook his head and shuddered. "She was… crazy, to put it nicely."

Ariadne had felt her spirits plummeting into a dark, endless pit. How could she compete with a girl with a name like Bianca? But as it turned out, she wouldn't have to, because she was so psycho that she had Arthur quaking in his boots.

While her dropping spirits pulled the chord on their figurative parachute, Arthur took the opportunity to double check that the door was locked and then looked over at Ariadne. He held her gaze for a long time.

"We have a bit of a problem," he said to the room at large, resmoothing his ruffled hair.

"Really now." Eames was quick to say. "I'm pretty sure that you're the only one that has problems. This"—and here he held up a piece of crumpled paper—"Is from fourth grade. A bit sentimental, aren't we?"

Arthur gave Eames a hard look, as if wondering if it would be worth expending the energy to throw one of his shoes at him, but then shook his head. (Ariadne guessed that it wasn't worth it.)

"No, really," Arthur insisted. "We do have a problem. My sister."

Ariadne nodded her head with vigor. Yes, Arthur's sister was a problem. She wondered how Arthur had grown up with a girl who was such an annoying, overbearing, terrible—

"I dunno," Eames shrugged. "She sure is a sight for sore eyes."

—pest. And suddenly the Queen CD case in her hand felt more like a weapon than the cover of a classic rock disc. She wondered if it was possible to hit Eames with it, even though he was across the room.

Arthur snorted, and seemed to roll his eyes. He seemed used to people talking about his sister like that, and for a crazy second, Ariadne wanted to throw the CD case at Arthur too. He was way too supportive of a person who was obviously causing a lot of problems.

"What's wrong with her?" Ariadne asked, in a hurry to hear what was wrong with Arthur's sister. Or to hear him say something bad about her. She wasn't sure.

"She knows." Was the cryptic reply.

"Knows what?" Eames chuckled, leaning back to rest his back on the lower bunk of the bed. "The relationship between prime numbers? What happens to the sock that gets lost in the wash?"

"Har har har." Arthur's laugh did not actually sound that much like a laugh. Ariadne decided that he was not actually amused (or making pirate noises. That would have been terribly out of character.) "No, Eames. Actually, that wasn't what I was talking about. What I mean is: she knows what I do for a living. She knows that I go into people's dreams."

Ariadne saw that this was a problem. But she didn't see how this was a problem for them. "So? I mean, you coming home doesn't mean that you're here to creep into anyone's thoughts."

Arthur nodded his head once, as if giving props to her one moment of logic. "True. That would be the case. But my sister isn't dumb. Unlike you, Eames, my sister is very logical. She likes math. And what's statistical chance that I meet both of you at a store? No one comes to this town, except to pass through. And when Yusuf shows up tomorrow, those odd will have exploded to near astronomical. Three people in the same town on the same week? I'm surprised that my mother isn't even suspicious."

"So what you're saying," Ariadne recapped from the corner, "is that your sister is suspicious of your motives for being home?"

"Yes," Arthur nodded. "She'll be on the lookout for any sort of suspicious activities. Ariadne, don't let her catch you looking around the house for details for the dreamscape. Eames, don't be stupid, okay? I know you can control yourself around pretty women. Please exercise this control and remember that my sister has a boyfriend and that you have a fiancé." He looked pointedly at Ariadne, who's face became the same red as the _Beatles 1_ CD she had moved to the "Keep" pile.

"And again," Eames' face looked sly, and Ariadne cringed, waiting for the garbage that Eames was sure to spout. "Arthur the point man has managed to overlook something."

He rose to his feet and stretched. "Just make sure that this time your overlooking doesn't mean that one of us gets stuck in Limbo."

Arthur's eyes shot to Eames and then to Ariadne, trying to decide which face was better to look at—which was less judgmental. They settled on Ariadne. "The Fischer job was a fluke. I just got… distracted. This time I'm not distracted at all."

The look on Eames' face showed very clearly that the tall, British man, begged to differ.

* * *

Ariadne spent the rest of her day drawing, drawing, drawing. In her biggest sweats, she wedged herself into the couch while Levitt James watched a college basketball game (he yelled at the TV the same way Arthur did. He was obviously displeased that his team was losing) and doodled the details of the house, making sure to note any odd features of the house. Since they would be using the house as the setting of the dream, it was important that Ariadne got everything right. James and his family had been living in this house since Arthur was a year old, so the old man knew it very well.

Ariadne was trying to get the details of the grandfather clock correct when a commercial break came on the TV. Levitt James muted the TV and angled himself to face Ariadne.

"So, Ariadne," was his introduction. Ariadne let out a small yelp of surprised and managed to snap the lead of her pencil. Levitt James just looked amused at her surprised and allowed her a few seconds to collect herself before he commended in his questioning.

"How did you meet my step-son?" It seemed like small talk, so Ariadne answered him truthfully. For a judge, he wasn't nearly suspicious enough.

"I just met him at work. Ariadne explained, flipping her doodle book over when Rachel entered the room and sat down next to her father.

"Ah, so you do the same kind of work Arthur does?" He asked sweetly, giving her a little half smile.

"Oh, yes." Ariadne was grateful that they had gone over this back story. She relayed to Levitt James and his (overly curious) daughter the story that they had prepared. How she and Arthur had met working on a bridge in Paris. He the engineer and she the architect.

"It's good that he's finally using that degree he worked so hard to get." Rachel chirped, fingers pecking at the remote to un-mute the television. "Last I heard he was doing an assistant job at some big company. He's good with details. He'd make a wonderful assistant. But engineering was always the job for him."

"I hear you're pretty good with numbers yourself," Ariadne said politely, and Rachel smiled genuinely at her.

"Oh, that's sweet of you to say." She gushed over the starting whistle of the game. "Arthur says that you're a stunning architect. Maybe you could show me the designs for that bridge sometime."

When the game started again, Ariadne found herself filled with more questions.

But the one thing she knew was that she needed to draw the plans for a bridge if she was going to be able to convince this confusing girl that she was innocent.

* * *

Arthur saved her from the intense shouting match that was going on between the two James family members and the televised basketball game. While Rachel was shouting at a point guard for not doing his job and Levitt James was cursing at a referee in his quiet way, Arthur stopped into the connected kitchen for a swig of milk out of the carton.

"Arthur, what have I told you about drinking out of the carton?" His mother chastised from one of the café style doors that went into the hallway. Her coming was so shocking that, if it weren't for the reflexes he had honed over the years, he would have ended up with milk all over his shirt.

"Mother!" he gasped. "Stop swooping down on me like that. You'll scare me to death."

His mother shook her head, as if giving up on her only son, and started banging pots and pans onto the stove top. "No need to be so wound up Arthur. If anything, my poor old bones will be the one to be scared to death when you randomly show up at my door. Honestly, this is the first time that you've actually called ahead. And always wearing those suits. Aren't you relaxed enough at home to dress down a bit?"

She snagged the milk carton from Arthur and proceeded to pour it into the mouth of one of the large cooking pots. She opened her mouth, as if to continue on her tirade, and Arthur took the time to interrupt her before she could start again.

"Ah, Ariadne, there you are." He said over the television and his yelling family members. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

Ariadne tore her eyes away from a particularly tall basketball player in blue and nodded with vigor.

She had never understood basketball anyway.

* * *

"Backstreet Boys?" Ariadne asked, holding up another CD case. She managed to stifle a giggle.

Arthur considered the CD case for a few seconds before he shook his head. "No, that one can go."

The two were back to cleaning Arthur's room. Eames was at an undisclosed location and the rest of the family was rooting for the basketball team downstairs. Ariadne could hear (and feel) the vibrations of Mrs. James' yelling through the carpet. If anything, Ariadne wasn't sure where Arthur had gotten his quiet streak from. It certainly wasn't from his mother.

"Good." Ariadne teased. "I was hoping that you would have better taste than to keep that piece of junk."

"Oh, junk, is it?" Arthur asked as he moved a stack of papers into the recycling bin next to his bed. "Because I was going to ask you if you wanted it. You seemed like the type that would like them."

"Well… that's kind of you." Ariadne placed the CD on the throw away stack. "But I have no need for that CD."

"Let me guess, you already have it." Ariadne's silence was enough of an answer. "Junk, eh?" He smirked and gave her a half smile. She decided that half smiles were irritating, and she would learn how to smile like that so she could smirk at Arthur too. He needed a taste of his own medicine.

"You've got a lot of music," Ariadne commented, running her fingers along the spines of the cases. They were in alphabetical order, of course, and they filled two large bookshelves.

"Yeah, I liked music back when I was a kid," he looked up from a paper he was looking over, and quinted at the titles on his shelf. "Lots of pop music too… Geez, the nineties were rough."

He shuddered and Ariadne pulled a title from the shelf at random. "So I take it Vanilla Ice is out of the picture." She held up the album for Arthur to see.

Arthur nodded vigorously. "I've started culturing myself! I've got to make up for twenty years of bad music taste."

"So you only listen to classical music now?" Ariadne pondered this option, and she decided that, yes, this was fitting.

"…Yes." Was his guilty response. Ariadne stared at his brown eyes. They were shifty. He was a terrible liar.

"Uh huh…." She was not convinced.

"Though I do admit that I keep a Greenday CD tucked away in my car as well…" Arthur finally admitted, and Ariadne had to laugh. It was so like Arthur, she decided, to try and keep a cool face. But on the inside, he was really just a big kid.

"You don't have to worry about being cultured, Arthur." Ariadne chided. "Listening to new music isn't bad."

"I guess I haven't been listening to the same music you have," Arthur grunted, obviously not believing that there was anything good on the radio.

"Tell you what, I'll make you a CD." Ariadne promised. "And you have to listen to it. New music isn't that bad."

Arthur pursed his lips and fingered the paper as he considered.

"Think about it. New music can't be any worse that the stuff from the nineties."

And with that logic, Arthur was forced to agree.

* * *

_Wow. This chapter was really long. And I had a really short A/N too!_

_And can I say: as I was writing this chapter, I was listening to exclusively 90s music? I love it with a passion. That and Asian music. New music too….._

_My life is about to take a nosedive into the busy pool. I'm starting my CNA **tomorrow**! It's 5-9 Monday, Tuesday, Thursday. That and I still have my normal class load from school._

_On the plus side, I got to dissect a pickle in Anatomy a few days ago. Sounds lame. I loved it._

_Please review! And tell me which songs I should include in Ariadne's CD. My taste in music is very widespread. But because I have so much music, I tend to miss out on stuff. I'll be so busy listening to Celtic music that I'll miss out the latest and greatest when it comes to pop culture. Remember—newish music and something you think Ariadne would listen to. I picture bands like The Hush Sound or maybe Cage the Elephant or Cartel..._

_Plus, I'm always on the lookout for new music, so any recommendations you have would be terrific!_

_Thanks to: LoquaciousLilLovely, gpeach6, FREAKTONIGHT, Luthienuviel, PoppyandViolet, sseventhdwarf, Crab Hole Cripple, Mai X Mai, Wintra, Star-crossed92, franks-not-dead, Princesscupcakes, Cortexikid, Legal-Assasin-006, and platypus-core for their reviews! I'm starting to freak out because of the response I'm getting to this story!_


	6. Standard of Maturity

_Sorry for the late update. If you will humor me for a few minutes, I will tell you how my week went._

_Mon-Tues: School from 6-1, home from school, homework for 4 hours, class until 10, go to sleep at 11_

_Wednesday: School from 6-1, home from school, two projects, makeup work, go to bed at 11_

_Thursday: See Monday_

_Friday: School from 6-1, TA from 1-2:30, FCA from 2:30-3:00, kidnap sleepover_

_Saturday: Two soccer games, Family outing, homework, project, bonding moment with sister, knit scarf_

_Sunday: Church, Finally able to play FIFA 11, Homework, project with which I have no help, makeup work. And now it is 6:42, I still have not finished my hw and I still have make-up work._

_Sadface._

_But I wanna start. Sorry for its shortness_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Six

_Wherein Ariadne learns that the James family supports the losing team_

* * *

When Mrs. James said make "yourself at home," Eames seemed to have taken her words to heart. Even before the words had finished marching out her mouth, Eames had parked his shoes at the door with his socks hanging out of them and had his (terrible smelling) feet propped up on the white wood coffee table. His manners hadn't improved in the three days they had been there. The most Ariadne could say for him was that at least he made his bed in the morning (by throwing the pillows back on the bed). And he had enough common courtesy not to pick the marshmallows out of the cereal box.

Eames even had the audacity to change the channel from a basketball game to a Football (soccer) game when the James family was out of the room to get cheese dip for their tortilla chips. He must have felt her stink eye from across the couch, because he turned to look at her when Van Persie missed his goal.

"What?" he said, shrugging with the remote in his hand. "I've gotta keep some of my culture."

"So you're watching Dutch Soccer?" Ariadne pointed knowingly at the TV and the Dutchman who was now taking a corner kick. "I thought you were from England."

Eames gave her a sympathetic look, as if he felt a bit sorry for her and her sorry state. He scooted over to sit by her and slung and arm around her shoulders.

"You're right. I am English." He smiled. "And Van Persie, the flying Dutchman, happens to play for a British team."

He patted her on the cheek like he would a little kid, but he did not remove his arm from her shoulders.

From that moment forward, until Arthur came and abdicated the remote from Eames, Ariadne decided to subject all of her attention to studying this "v. Persie" character, and not on the arm around her shoulder.

And then when Arthur came in and sat down two inches from her, Ariadne paid the most attention to a basketball game that she ever had in her life.

But due to twin distractions, she did not learn much, except that Arthur and Eames were very, very warm people.

* * *

For an engaged man, Eames managed to spend a lot of time with Rachel, which sent Ariadne on two trains of thought. A) She was grateful that Eames was distracted and didn't talk to her as much. She loved Eames, yes, (except for when he printed off an Arsenal Roster and ordered her to memorize it) but all the touchy feely activities were starting to grow as old as Methuselah. But B) they _were_ supposed to be pretending to be engaged, and Eames's attention drifts were throwing their plan to the dogs (although Marty, Arthur's dog, probably wouldn't have touched it if it had anything to do with Eames.)

The day that Yusuf was supposed to show up, Eames announced to the family that he needed to go and do "wedding things," like pick out a tux. He, evidently, was a man of superb taste, and actually wanted to _buy_ his tux, rather than rent one. Ariadne teased that this made him as sensitive as a woman; he obviously wanted to keep his dress—errr, _tux_—as a memento of their soon-to-be wedding. But Rachel found this instantly endearing and told Arthur that he should go with Eames to pick out the tux.

Arthur shot his sister a look that told her that he would rather eat nineteen Ariadne-sized helpings of tuna casserole than go shopping with this "friend" of his.

"Arthur here is helping Ariadne pick out her dress." Eames explained slyly. "If you can't tell, your brother is a little more in touch with his feminine side than most men nowadays."

Ariadne wondered if now was a good time to bring up the fact that she and Eames had had a Taylor Swift sing-off in the car on the way to the airport a few days before. She figured that, no, now was not the time and place for this earth shattering revelation.

When Rachel left with Eames after breakfast, and Ariadne found herself alone with Arthur, she was glad that she had kept her trap shut and eaten her Wheaties (After all, they were the breakfast of champions, and at this moment, Ariadne was a champion.)

"Should we take this time to discuss how we're going to proceed now that my sister is here?" Arthur asked, spooning his last bite of oatmeal into his mouth. The James parents were still asleep, so it was the opportune time, but Ariadne shook her head.

"Naw. I think Yusuf should be in on the planning. He might have some good insights, and we need to keep our options open."

Arthur seemed to think that she spoke sense, since he nodded and chewed his oatmeal without his usual thoughtful, calculating look. "So, what do you say we do for all of today? We can't do anything without Eames and Yusuf."

Ariadne thought for two spoonfuls of Wheaties before she sucked up her courage and (re)asked a question she had asked two nights ago.

"Why did you say that you and I were best friends?" She managed to gush out before she stuffed another spoonful of Wheaties into her mouth and hoped that they would give her the feeling of a champion that she had lost when she had just embarrassed herself.

Arthur swallowed his oatmeal (gross, gloppy stuff that stuck in people's throats, Ariadne decided) and wiped his hands on a cloth napkin (yes, the James family used cloth napkins. Ms. James had proudly showed her the Steelers' Superbowl napkins yesterday.)

"I told you, it's easier to tell your parents the truth. It makes things neater." A faint red appeared on Arthur's cheeks, and Ariadne felt the urge to push the box of Wheaties toward him.

"Wait. I'm your best friend? What about Cobb?"

"Cobb is gone. He's with his kids, riding Space Mountain. He won't ever be coming back. The moment the Fischer job turned into a way for him to get back to his kids, we kinda… split."

Ariadne thought that this sounded a little selfish of Arthur. "Huh… Got a bit jealous of some kids?"

Arthur snorted, and then shook his head. "No, hardly. James and Phillipa are awesome and I could never be jealous of them. No, that's not what I mean."

"Then what in the world to you mean? Are you talking in code?" Ariadne asked.

"Well, the moment Cobb found a way to get back to his kids, that was all he focused on. Before, he and I always stuck together. We were always on the run, always looking for another job. We had a mutual bond, a mutual fear. The fear that we would never be able to get back home. For me, it hadn't happened, and for him, it had. So he took me under his wing and made sure that whatever happened to him wouldn't happen to me.

"But the moment that he found out that he could get back to his kids, his focus dropped. You saw all the stuff that he made happen in the Fischer dream. That hadn't happened before, and I think I know why."

"Because he was so close to seeing his kids again," Ariadne finished. "All of those memories were made stronger by the fact that this was his one last chance to make up for all of his mistakes. It was all or nothing for him."

Arthur nodded. "If it had been any other job, any other reward, things would have gone normally. That train busted through Main Street because this was his one last chance to make up for the life he wrecked. It was stress—a physical reminder of all of his regrets that he could make up for with this one job."

Ariadne nodded, but her question still hadn't been answered. "So why did you and Cobb fall away?"

"Oh, we haven't fallen away; that wounds a bit too harsh for what happened." Arthur started mounding his oatmeal into the Appalachian Mountain Range. "But when we started working the Fischer job, we just didn't talk as much. You were the only person I really talked to."

He offered her a half smile, which Ariadne reciprocated, but with a full smile, as she was incapable of forming a half smile without it making look like half of her face was under the influence of anesthesia.

"So you're still friends…." Ariadne prompted.

"…I'm just better friends with you," Arthur finished.

The two sat in their new, amiable silence, before Ariadne broke it again.

"So what does this have to do with Eames?" Ariadne asked, quoting Arthur's answer a few nights ago.

"Eames?" Arthur was a good enough actor, but Ariadne could tell that he was honestly confused.

"You told me a few nights ago that it was because of Eames that you told your mother and step-father that we were best friends."

Arthur bobbed his head up and down, remembering. "Well, I couldn't let that ugly Brit be the only one with some emotional attachment to you. If you weren't my best friend, it would make doing things like this really weird."

Arthur scooped up one of the mountains of oatmeal into his spoon, and, with a practiced lob, landed a glob of the sticky stuff on her cheek.

When Ms. James came down and found the two of them splattered with every kind of cereal imaginable, Ariadne kind of wished that Eames had eaten all of the marshmallows out of the box. There would have been a lot less to clean up.

But when Arthur commented that blue moons matched her pretty Cocoa Puff eyes perfectly, Ariadne thanked her fake-fiancé for making sure to leave at least one blue moon in the box.

* * *

Due to the food fight that morning, Ariadne and Arthur were slated to errand duty all day. It was "the least" they could do for "soiling a perfectly clean kitchen that Eames, _that_ _dear_, had spent all evening cleaning."

(Ariadne wanted to tell Ms. James that Eames hated basketball so much he would rather clean a kitchen or fight a tiger than watch another second of it. Then she decided that it was good that at least one of the guests in the house was good terms with Ms. James because Ariadne wanted something good to eat for dinner that night.)

They were sent off in Mr. James' car to pick up carrots from town and to drop off a package at the post office.

"Your step-father has good taste," Ariadne commented, turning up the Billy Joel a few more clicks.

"Yeah," Arthur said, bobbing his head a few times to the music. "He instilled in me his great taste, at an early age, obviously."

Arthur and Ariadne thought back to all the boy band CDs they had recently thrown away, and they repressed a shudder and a giggle respectively.

"So how long have you been living with your step-father, then?" Ariadne asked, turning down the music again to allow conversation to flow properly.

"Basically since I was born. Evidently my mother's first husband—my father—was a jerk, and she left him and married my father a few months later." Arthur's eyebrows furrowed into near train-track parallels.

"So you've been living with him for all of these years, and he still considers himself your step-father?"

Arthur was quiet for a while before simply stating, "Twenty-seven years."

"And then Rachel came along… seven years after you did?"

"Three years." Arthur looked up from his clenched hands. "Rachel's twenty-four."

Ariadne decided it would be tasteless to mention that she pictured Rachel still watching cartoons on Saturday and wearing pig-shaped slippers. She also thought it would be tactless to mention that Rachel acted younger than Ariadne's own twenty-three years. Though, judging by the food fight that morning, Ariadne was hardly the standard by which to judge maturity.

"Oh, I thought she was… younger." Ariadne finished lamely.

"Yes…." Arthur said, and his knuckles whitened on the steering-wheel. "She's changed a lot in the last five years."

The two drove for a few miles, and Ariadne took in the greenery on the side of the road and picked at the peeling paint on her Boston Red Sox keychain. There wasn't an oppressive air in the car, but until the whiteness in Arthur's knuckles went down, Ariadne figured that it might be counterproductive to try to talk to him.

"I used to play baseball there all the time," Arthur said, motioning with his head out of the car. Ariadne saw four glowing fields loom up on the right side of the road as they slid out from between the trees. They had entered the outskirts of town, which was where the high school was situated, evidently. In the half morning light, the red of the pitch and the green of the fields looked a welcoming sight, and there were already mini-might teams setting up their tees to practice their swings.

"You like baseball?" Ariadne questioned, looking at Arthur in a new light for the first time.

"More than basketball," He explained. Before this trip to his house, Ariadne wouldn't have thought this comparison all that impressive. But since he had spent the last few days doing nothing but traveling from the coach to the kitchen during the commercial breaks of basketball games, Ariadne felt her mouth drop open with the velocity of an aerodynamic object being launched from a cannon.

"Really?" Was all she could muster.

"Yep." He said as he gave the fields a long look. "I played baseball through high school. Could have gotten a scholarship if I hadn't broken my leg senior year."

"You broke your leg." It was more a statement of continued surprise than a real question.

"I broke my leg sliding into home. I won the game, but spent the next weeks on crutches. Missed Senior Night too…. But I still love baseball."

"I love baseball too!" Ariadne gushed, holding up her Boston Red Sox keychain in proof. "My family has been a fan of the Sox for all of my life. We were season ticket holders."

Arthur brought the car to a complete stop and gave her a very, very hard look. "I might have to ask you to leave this car."

Ariadne blinked back her surprised and lowered the keychain she had in her hand.

"Ummmm… why?"

Arthur pointed with a quivering finger to the ornament hanging from Mr. James' rear view window.

It was a Yankees symbol.

And suddenly Ariadne felt very dirty sitting in a car that was tainted with Yankee filth.

* * *

_Sorry for all the pop culture references in this chapter. I feel kinda lame for including them, but it's late and I gave up on making this a timeless piece. C;_

_I also like how I managed to put sooooo many of my obsessions into this chapter. C:_

_Please review. It is late, and I'm only going to read over this once before I post it. Sorry if there are any typos. I usually have my sister Beta chapters, but my parents have banned her from doing anything that does not involve sleeping, and it's only because I'm about to go off to college and my parents are letting me get away with things that I'm able to still be awake. C: So tell me if you see typos!_


	7. On the Awares

_Thanks for all of the reviews you guys have sent me! What started out as a story I was writing for my sister has become a very well loved story! You guys rock! I used to be terrible about updating, but now I feel terrible if I don't!_

_I'll start this chapter now. I warn you, I have no idea what is going to happen! This is all coming from the wild ramblings of my overtaxed brain!_

**_Dedication goes to Luthienuviel for all of the help I got! I have actually rewritten one of my characters because of her advice!_**

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Seven

_-Wherein extended metaphors are overused for the sake of an author's sense of humor-_

* * *

When Yusuf was located and safely stashed in the car, the tensions of the warring baseball clans were lessened. Arthur forgot his vow to eject Ariadne from the moving vehicle for long enough to explain that a wrench had been thrown in their flawless machine of a plan. He explained that his sister had shown up and Ariadne tuned Arthur out after that—she started to visualize what it would be like if Arthur had described Rachel as a "pain in the butt" to Yusuf. She decided that she liked this mental picture and it could possibly cancel out the fact that he was a Yankees fan.

Fortunately, Yusuf asked enough questions to keep the two of them busy all the way back to the James household, where Rachel's car was already pulled up in the gravel driveway. The subject of baseball wasn't brought up again, but for the first time, Ariadne noticed a large chain-link structure in the field to the right of the massive house. If the baseballs inside of it were any indication, it was a batting cage, and Ariadne wondered how in the world she had managed to miss such an important part of Arthur's life. She resolved in her mind to be more observant.

Yusuf was quickly welcomed into the house with only a single eyebrow raise from Rachel. She gave her brother a long look, then flitted toward the kitchen from which was exuding a smell of baked chicken. Ariadne hoped that the chicken was for lunch, since most of her Wheaties had ended up in Arthur's hair.

* * *

Eames would not show her the suit he had purchased on his outing with Rachel.

"Now, now, darling," He chided, tapping her on the nose a few times with his pointer finger. "I haven't seen your dress, so you can't see my tux."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "You have a tux. I don't have a wedding dress. There's a reason you haven't seen my dress yet."

Eames gave her a very pointed look, and Ariadne's eyes widened to the size of car hubcaps. "Wait, you aren't telling me that I have to buy a wedding dress, are you?"

"Well, Rachel was wondering what style of tux would match your dress. I told her you haven't bought it yet. I got a curious look." He folded the bagged tux over his forearm and sighed. "If we're going to pull of this engaged thing, you're going to have to start looking excited about wedding stuff. You could at least look at decorations."

Ariadne hoped that Eames was feeling the hot bullets of the eye guns she had aimed at him.

"The only problem, _honey_," Ariadne snipped, "is that I'm not actually excited about this fake wedding deal."

Eames held up the covered suit and gagged. "And you think I am? I hope you aren't under the impression that I like wearing ties." He put a hand up to his neck and mock-choked. "I'm not like our stoic companion Arthur who enjoys strangling himself every day with different colored strips of cloth. I'm pretty sure the reason Arthur doesn't talk to anyone is because he doesn't get enough air to his brain."

There was a moment of silence, before the oddity of the situation hit her. She was standing in Arthur's house, in Arthur's room (Yankee poster… gross,) discussing with Eames, her fake fiancé, whether or not Arthur was suffering from asphyxiation on a day to day basis, and if this had any adverse effect on his mental capacities or not. And all of this because she was supposed to buy a wedding dress to cover up her cover—marrying a British man she had known for six months because she took trips into peoples' dreams to steal information.

Without warning, she burst out into laughter.

But it wasn't uncalled for, such laughter.

Two years ago, college had been her life. Two years ago, she had a boyfriend and a life in Paris. Two years ago she didn't know about living in dreaming. Two years ago she didn't know about Penrose stairs and infinity in mirrors. Two years ago, she wouldn't have pictured her life like this. Two years ago, she wouldn't have traded her warm Paris apartment for anything, much less a future like this.

But now, she would have given up her Paris apartment for any part of it.

Minus the marrying Eames part.

Because when he walked out of the room, mystery-tux tossed casually over his shoulder, he had the gall to remind her that she needed to start looking at table centerpieces.

* * *

It was down to business with Yusuf there. With all the figures in place, the table was set and the main dish was ready to be served. The only problem was Rachel, who, if this metaphor is to be continued, played the part of the very nasty oven that burned all of their well laid plans into crisps. So it was back to the drawing board for the crew. The four, Ariadne, Eames, Arthur, and Yusuf, took up residence in Arthur's bedroom after introductions had been made, under the ruse of "searching for something for Yusuf." The family did not dare enter into Arthur's room in its current, wind torn state, so they bid the four farewell and let them clod up the stairs without a second word.

Since they weren't actually lying about finding something for Yusuf—he needed a USB cord—they all took up spots around the room and searched for it, albeit not very carefully. Ariadne took to the bookshelf again, fingering the drastically depleted collection of music Arthur had kept, then let her eyes wander as Arthur began calling out for plans.

She spotted Arthur's yearbooks, and was suddenly very glad that she was a short person. Any tall person would have overlooked them. People had a nasty tendency not to look down when they were looking for something.

"So we all know it's a problem that my sister is here, but it shouldn't be detrimental to our plans." Arthur was saying as Ariadne flipped to the index to look for Arthur.

"Yes, we hope that his oversight won't be as detrimental to our plans as your overlooking the militarization of the Fischer job…" Eames drawled from his position on the lower bunk of Arthur's bed. He was obviously hoping that there was a USB cord in Arthur's pillow, because this was the only place his eyes were exploring, if they were even open at all.

Arthur's eyes made a sharp cut to where Eames was laying on the bed and let out a string of words that sounded more like a growl. "I was distracted."

"Hrmph," Eames's voice was muffled by the thick down of the pillow. "Well, I hope that that distraction is gone this time. I'm not in the mood for an extended Limbo stay."

Arthur didn't feel the need to say anything to Eames's completely called for statement, but Yusuf did seem to feel the need to say something.

"We won't be needing to use heavy anesthesia for this procedure. At least I don't think we will need to…" He let his words drop off, and looked to Arthur for confirmation.

Arthur shook his head and then crinkled his eyebrows. "Wait. Why are all of these questions being directed at me? Isn't Eames the one in charge of this whole operation? Wasn't he the one to get us all this job?"

And from here, three sets of eyes swung to Eames. The man didn't even bother to lift his head off of the pillow. Raising an arm, he flopped his wrist toward Arthur.

"Arthur's the one who always makes sure a stick is planted firmly in the mud. Any creative urge of mine will be squashed, so I hereby bequeath any power I still held and give it to the man who would steal it from me anyway."

His announcement complete, he let his arm fall back to the bed and went on looking like a very dead log.

Arthur shrugged, but did not look surprised about the power transfer. He even gave an eye-roll and began talking in a very judgelike manner. So judgelike, in fact, that Ariadne almost forgot that he and Mr. James were not related.

"Well, now that that business is taken care of, I am willing to take any suggestions." He stated.

"Oh, an absolute monarch offers the voice of a council?" Eames teased from the bed. Wishing Arthur well on the next five minutes of arguing, Ariadne tuned the two of them out and flipped to page ninty-five and found herself looking at an eleventh grade, very young looking Arthur. He was wearing the school uniform and Ariadne was shocked to see that he was not wearing a tie, unlike the male next to him.

Arthur not wearing a tie? That was mind boggling. She let that sink in for a moment, perhaps the length of two of Arthur and Eames' snappy comebacks that she could vaguely hear in the peripheral of her hearing. Then she returned to studying the picture of baby Arthur.

His hair was not slicked back. She considered the fact that, yes, Arthur had probably not always looked like a point/mafia man. But with hair that looked like he had styled it to look like he had just rolled out of bed. Hair that was all pointing _forward. _Ariadne had to take a few steps back. The hair, paired with the lack of a tie and the presence of a full smile (the half smile he gave her made her melt. The full smile and dimples that was displayed on the paper before her sent her completely off the deep end,) led her to double check the name on the side of the page. Was this eleventh grade boy really the same Arthur that she knew now?

The name revealed that it was indeed.

Ariadne had a new goal.

Make Arthur smile the full smile. She wanted to see his dimples.

* * *

Ariadne tuned back in just in time. It seemed that the two men had finished their verbal sparring with a draw and judging from the wide grin on Yusuf's face, Ariadne had missed an epic gladiator fight of words. She pictured the dimples on Arthur's face and decided that it had been worth it to miss the war of words.

"So, as I was saying before," Arthur huffed, "do any of you guys have any ideas of how we're going to go about doing our plan without arousing my sister's suspicion?"

Ariadne held up a hand, throwing herself back a few years to the grade school age when she raised her hand to ask a question.

"Yes, Ariadne?' Arthur pointed at her, and Ariadne felt slightly ridiculous for raising her hand.

"I know your sister knows about us being dream… investigators." Ariadne began. "But I don't get how this is a deterrent from continuing with our plan that we had before."

The room around her nodded, seeing her logic. Just because Rachel knew about the job they were there to do, didn't mean that they needed to switch up their plans.

But Arthur shook his head. "Rachel has her suspicions, as she should. She's a smart girl. But because she's so smart, she's not going to go around accusing us unless she has proof. Bad things happened—just know that she's not going to go around accusing us.

"But she'll be on a sharp look out for proof. She's more detail oriented than I am—It's my only goal in life to beat her at finding things in ISpy books—so we need to be really careful. And this gives a problem of even connecting him to the machine…."

"Needle marks," Yusuf gasped, and Arthur nodded.

"She'll see them as soon as he wakes up. Part of the deal was that my father didn't find out about what we were doing. The US government isn't supposed to be tied up in illegal activities, after all."

The group sat around in a considering silence.

"So what you're saying is that we need to find a way to stick him with needles without Rachel noticing?" Ariadne asked, placing the goldmine yearbook back on the bookshelf. She would explore its three siblings at a time when she could take her camera phone to them (No, she wasn't a stalker. She just needed a picture ID for Arthur.)

"Yes, that's what I'm saying." There was a look of hopelessness in Arthur's eyes. Ariadne redoubled her scariness image of Rachel when she realized that Arthur could really see no way around his sister's hawk like eyes.

Ariadne was actually surprised at him.

"Easy." She said, curling her legs up to sit on them. "Have him get his flu shot."

The group seemed to blink back at her in sync. "What?" Arthur asked from his spot on his computer chair.

"Just have him get a flu shot. Then we can use the same hole that they used for his flu shot. Rachel will just think that it's the puncture wound from the shot."

"Ariadne," Arthur said with his eyes full of worship. "I honestly don't think I could love you any more that I do right now."

* * *

As she lay in her/Arthur's bunk bed that night, Ariadne considered the last few days with an overwhelming sense of ease. She had been well fed, she had bonded with Eames and she had proved that her brain did actually function on an above average level. She had learned that Arthur had dimples and that he did have one fault: he supported the Yankees.

But the fact that he had dimples almost masked the Yankee stench that she sometime smelled while he was around.

"Your family isn't what I expected," Ariadne said out of the blue, hoping that the man below her was still awake.

There was a rustle of bed clothing below before Arthur answered. "Oh, and how is that?"

"I dunno. If anyone was allowed to have a tragic past, it would be you. But then I come to your house and all of my dark, morbid pasts that I've dreamt up for you have turned out to be completely wrong. I mean, you have high school yearbooks and you used to have girl friends. Your mother is completely normal and your dad is in government. There were no tragic pasts. There were no twelve siblings that you had to provide for all by yourself. You aren't even a member of the mafia. You drink out of the milk carton!"

Arthur seemed to find something about her heartfelt confession slightly funny, because below her, he chuckled.

"People are like movie trailers. Some of them tell you the entire plot of the movie. But others give you enough information that you are surprised when the movies turn out to be the exact opposite of what you would think." Came Arthur's sage wisdom after he was finished laughing.

There was a pause and then Ariadne voiced the only thought that was on her mind after he had finished his extended metaphor.

"Wait, you go to the movies?" Was all she had to say.

A bark of surprised laughter was his response. "That's hardly what I wanted you to get out of that. Of course I go to the movies."

Ariadne let that soak in for a while, and then decided that, yes, she did in fact like this Arthur who listened to Vanilla Ice, played baseball and went to movies. There was so much she didn't know about him, and she decided that now was the time to find out all of his secrets. There was a companionable silence filling the room that poked her and prided her into asking him questions. Maybe it was because it was dark that she suddenly felt brave enough to ask him the questions that she had pondered on for a long time after she had met him: he wouldn't see her blush when she asked.

"How did you meet Cobb?" Ariadne asked, starting with a simple question. The two were close enough friends that she figured this would be one of the few un-weighty questions she could ask him.

It turned out to be the exact opposite.

There was a long silence from below, and suddenly the amiable air was sucked from the room like Mr. James had taken to the room with his Shop-vacuum.

"Rachel introduced me to him."

* * *

_Does that count as a cliffy? I HOPE IT DOES!_

_So… I realized a long time ago that the James family would find it weird that Ariadne calls Eames by his last name. I also realized in this chapter than I never gave Arthur a last name, so Ariadne finding Arthur in the Index of his yearbook would be impossible. I've made up Arthur's back story, but I don't want to make up last names. Somehow I find this practice a little bit too much. Same goes for the first name for Eames. I already am having a hard time with making up Arthur's family. I don't like playing with Cannon this much, but, hey, I have to for this story. I'm just trying to be as true to Cannon as I can and if I don't need to make up first and last names, I won't. Does this seem totally at odds with my entire story being a background story? Si….._

_And can I say that my new hero is Jack Wilshere! He's one year older than me and he is in a professional football/soccer league? He joined Arsenal when he was **NINE**. **NINE**! Granted, they didn't have him running around on the field, but they definitely kept him on their radar. I both hate him and love him at the same time. CAN I MARRY HIM?_

_Thank you to: Mickerayla, Mai x Mai, FREAKTONIGHT, AdriDee, LoquaciousLilLovely, Emzilla101, gpeach6, Comfortably Plump, Legal-Assassin-006, Luthienuviel, and NolitaChica211 for reviewing! I love all of these people and their lovely mood boosters I get every time I open my email! You all rock!_


	8. Back Up

_You have my eternal apologies for the lateness of this chapter. However, if you lived my life, you would know that I was not out to get you in my lack of update on Sunday. I won't even bore you with the details of my sad sorry life except to tell you that my 3+ hour nap on Saturday was completely needed. And no, that is not sarcasm. If you would like an example of the terribleness of my schedule, I have to go to class today… and it is a holiday…. Yes, you may shoot my life. It's already dead._

_Here I go!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Eight

_Wherein Ariadne feels like she is back in middle school_

* * *

Life would have been a bit better if Arthur had started off his story with "It was a dark and stormy night." But as that would have taken a less serious person than Arthur, and in Arthur's current mood, she didn't think it would be a good idea to bring the idea up.

"So, Rachel is the reason you know Cobb? Isn't he, like, five years older than Rachel?" Aridne asked from above, hating that she had inserted "like" into the middle of her sentence. She looked like a middle schooler—she did not need to sound like one too.

From below, she heard Arthur shrug, and decided that it didn't really matter how old Cobb was in relation to Rachel.

"So…." Ariade did not like silences. Nor not knowing what Arthur was thinking. "What happened? Now that you've told me part of the story, you have to tell me the rest."

"That story is a lot more than just an 'how Arthur met Cobb' story." Arthur said shortly and Ariadne did feel like a middle schooler. Being yelled at by her Algebra teacher. She did not like it, so she decided to be short with Arthur too.

"You can't just leave me hanging like that." She chided.

"Why not?" Arthur stated. "I answered your original question 'how did you meet Cobb.' I don't see why I have to expound."

Ariadne was frustrated, and if she had control of a large truck, she would have directed it into a ditch so as to see an explosion to match her feelings.

"You can't just leave me hanging like that," She said.

"This conversation is starting to sound very repetitive," Arthur sighed, and rolled over, sending the top bunk sailing around in circles.

Aridane glowered into the ceiling, hoping that she could burn a hole in it and have it fall onto the annoying man below her. Then she realized that she was on the top bunk and that it would hit her first. She had to rethink her idea.

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Neither dared move, for fear that any creak of the bed or any rustle of bed clothes would set the other's teeth more on edge. Ariadne swore she could hear Arthur's teeth grinding below her, and she gave an inward satisfied smirk. She hoped he was uncomfortable and that he ground his teeth into non existence.

Then she pictured Arthur, her Arthur, without teeth and she had to quit that wish. Instead she sighed.

"Just when I think I'm getting to know you, you close off. You're like that annoying car in a parking garage. You block me off before I can get in." she rolled over in bed and snuggled into her pillow.

She was surprised when she heard Arthur answer her comment.

"You know, you're not that open either. Whenever I ask you questions about yourself, you give me the shortest answers possible. When my parents were asking you questions—dare I say it?—I was excited to hear what you had to say. From the answers you gave me, it was like I wasn't even there."

"You learned what color my toothbrush was." Ariadne commented.

"I already knew that." Arthur's voice sounded muffled, as if he too was face planted into his pillow.

In tandem with being shocked that Arthur knew the color of her toothbrush—she shouldn't have been surprised—Ariadne considered the truthfulness of his words. She hadn't thought of it before, but she wasn't exactly the most open of people either. It was not because of some hidden agenda, though. She didn't tuck her secrets away into remote pockets of her brain because she didn't want people to unfold and find them. She did it because she didn't think that people would find her interesting. She was much more interested in the people around her than they would ever be of her.

And yet, here was Arthur below her, expressing interest in a subject she had never considered—herself.

"I'm not that interesting," Ariadne blushed, thankful for the dark and her location far above Arthur.

"On the contrary, I find you very interesting to study," Arthur paused for a second and then added, "That sounded extremely creepy. Sorry."

Ariadne laughed, and said, "No, it's okay. I just never really thought of myself as interesting. That's all."

"The same goes for me." Arthur added.

"What? You're terribly interesting? There aren't many people alive that I would be surprised to have such an average family life. I expected Mafia, maybe headhunters, not Southern gentlefolk."

"My family isn't Southern. My parents were raised in New York and I was born there too. We moved here when I was two to get away from my mother's old husband—my father."

"See?" Ariadne exclaimed. "Nothing I guess about you is right!"

"Well I for one would have never thought that you would have a cat." Arthur seemed to be still shocked about Ariadne's cat. "Or that you like Neapolitan ice cream. Who likes that junk anyway?"

"It's delicious, thank you," Ariadne scoffed. "You obviously have poor taste, Arthur. A Yankee's fan, a dog lover and a Neapolitan hater to boot."

"See?" Arthur exclaimed, as if she had just proven his point. "You are interesting. You are completely different from me."

Ariadne let that sink in for a while. "We aren't that different," she said with a frown. "We both like baseball. We're both detail oriented. We both come from up north. We like oldies and we both have undiscovered pasts. We both have pets and our parents always serve us food we hate."

"What does your mother serve you?" Arthur asked.

"Goat cheese pasta. It's worse than Tuna Casserole." Ariadne nearly gagged.

"Not possible."

They laid in supremely less uncomfortable silence for a while longer, mulling over the information download they had just sat through.

It was Ariadne who came up with the idea.

"I have an idea," She announced, and the bed shook from a jump from Arthur. She had obviously surprised him.

"Now that you have stopped my heart, what is this plan you have thought of?" He said a few seconds later.

"We both want to get to know the other person a little bit better, correct?" And here she sounded like a middle school teacher, talking to a bunch of sixth graders.

"Correct." Extremely talkative sixth graders, Ariadne thought as she rolled her eyes.

"I propose that we swap information. I'll ask a question, which you will answer, and then you will ask a question which I will answer."

Arthur seemed to consider her proposition for a few second before answering with a short "As long as I get to ask first."

"You've already asked a question tonight." Ariadne said, remembering her Mother's Goat Cheese pasta again.

"It wasn't part of our trivia session though." Arthur sounded smug. "I just got that one for free."

Ariadne had to concede to his point. And still the burning urge to know what was the deal with Rachel and Cobb burned away any reservations she would have had about answering his questions.

"Okay, whatever." She said finally. "deal. Now ask your question."

The question was out of his mouth before she had even finished her own sentence. He obviously wanted to know.

"Why did you come with us?" He asked. "I mean, why did you take this job."

"Easy," Ariadne said quickly. "I wanted to work more with dreams."

"I don't believe it." Arthur said nearly as quickly. "I know that working with dreams is addictive. All that power makes you feel godlike. But there are always more jobs to pick. You had the chance to go home, but you didn't take the opportunity. You've been living away from home for so long—you have to be homesick. I know I have been."

Ariadne soaked in the fact that Arthur felt anything but scorn before choosing her words carefully. "Contrary to you belief, Arthur, I didn't know that there would be more jobs. None of you talked to me after the Fischer Job, so I thought I had been left in the cold without a coat. When the next job came up, I took it as fast as I could."

"But why?" Arthur asked. "I don't get it. If I had the chance to go home, I would have taken it without hesitation."

Ariadne shook her head. "Maybe that's because you have something to look forward to when you go home. I'm not saying I have a terrible family life, but I can say that I wish I had yours."

"So did you actually want to go home at all?" Arthur asked, and Ariadne realized that this was what he had been getting at this whole time. He had just managed to say it in such a roundabout way that he had gotten more answers for his one question. He was tricky, this Arthur.

"I mean, I guess," Ariadne shrugged. "I love my parents. But Paris is my home, and I have friends there that I don't have back in Massachusetts. My parents never wanted me to go to Paris and I was afraid that I'd get stuck living with them again if I went back. It sounds ridiculous, I know."

"Not really," Arthur said, and Ariadne felt that he meant it. "I was like that when I was younger. I was a very angry teenager."

"I can imagine," Ariadne said dryly, though in all reality she couldn't picture Arthur being anything but comepletly rational and level headed.

"But why would you be afraid that you'd be stuck living with them again?" Arthur questioned, but Ariadne shushed him.

"You've asked your question," she announced. "And now it is my turn. I think you know what I want to know."

Arthur was silent below her.

"I want to know what happened between Rachel and Cobb and you."

* * *

It was silent again while Arthur gathered his thoughts. For a few seconds, Ariadne was afraid that he would break his part of the deal, but she pushed that thought to the extremities of her brain. The day that Arthur broke his word would be the day that Mother Teresa went to prison.

"Rachel was a freshman in college," Arthur began quickly, as if it was a story that he wanted to get rid of quickly. "She went out of state for a math degree on a scholarship for cheerleading. She wrote to us regularly, talking about how much she loved life outside of Virginia.

"It was all she could talk about, living outside of Virginia. It was like a dream come true. She had always like the excitement of the outside world, and now that she was a cheerleader, she got to travel around for competitions and to cheer at away games. She wasn't one that you wanted to keep contained, but in such a small town, it was hard to let her have any freedom without getting an earful from the neighbors."

Ariadne pictured Rachel, tall and willowy. Birdlike and graceful, she could see her loving adventure and full of life. At least in the past. There was a deadness to her look now, as if she had seen too many winters and too few summers. She still had the grace Arthur spoke of, and a care freeness about her. But there was something… off… about the way she acted. As if she didn't care to trust anyone—besides her family—farther than she could throw them.

"We were excited for her. I had gone out of state, too, for engineering, so I was glad that my sister got to share in the joy of leaving the nest for a bit. She wrote to me too, and we emailed for months. We would send pictures, she of all the things she had seen and me of all the things I had built. We grew closer through writing than we had ever been living in the same house. We had always been a bit at odds, living together. We both were children that demanded attention—please don't say anything snide."

Ariadne hadn't been about to. But she urged him to continue, glad to finally be getting the truth.

"Maybe it's because I was so far away, or maybe because we were closer at a distance, but she started telling me more about what was going on. She told me that she had met a really great guy and that he was making college life a lot more interesting for her.

"You can imagine, as an older, now overprotective brother, I was skeptical as to what was going on with them. So I told her that we should meet, have a "double date," and talk in real life. I told her 'weird! I actually miss you! We should get together—bring your man and I'll bring my woman and we can have a face to face discussion over dinner some time.' We were only a state away from each other, so it was a feasible plan."

"Wait, who was your 'woman'?" Ariadne asked, interrupting for the first time since the conversation had begun.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Urm… Remember, this was before I knew Cobb."

"Who was it?" Ariadne asked. She was blown away by his answer.

"Mal, actually." He way he spat it out of his mouth made it very clear that he was uncomfortable with the fact that he had once dated Cobb's wife.

"Mal?" Ariadne was just as astounded as Arthur was uncomfortable. "You dated Mal?"

"Do you want that to be your question, or shall I continue."

Ariadne was tempted to ask details, but she decided to focus back in on her original question. "No, please continue."

Arthur gathered his thoughts for a while, then continued. "Like I said, I had grown to be an over protective sibling. So when she said yes, I was pleased that I would get the opportunity to scope out this guy and make sure he wasn't the scum of the earth."

"He wasn't, was he?" Ariadne asked.

"Hardly. I walked into the restaurant we'd chosen. That was the first time I saw Cobb. My sister was standing next to him, all dressed up in her finest. She looked as put together as she usually did—fine dressing runs in the family." Arthur sounded smug, and Ariadne was once again reminded that she needed to learn how to smile a half smile so that she could show him how freaky it was to be smiled at like that.

"But even dressed up like normal, and even though she was as chatty as normal and even though she ate the same amount of food, she seemed off. She didn't seem normal. I also didn't get the feeling that she and Cobb were dating. They were obviously close friends, but their closeness didn't seem to stem from a relationship. In fact, Cobb spent the whole dinner flirting with Mal."

"And you didn't care?" Ariadne was aghast that Arthur would let his girlfriend be taken away like that. And that he wasn't bitter.

"No. I mean, I noticed. But I was too busy trying to figure out what was different about my sister to notice that Cobb and Mal were basically going to get married by the end of the night." He seemed to laugh to himself.

"So what happened next?" Ariadne prompted, not wanting Arthur to waste time with his inside thoughts. She just wanted him to keep telling what happened.

"I believe that that should be enough to answer your question." Arthur sounded final, but Ariadne was not.

"Oh no sir, it was not. I asked what happened between the three of you, not how you met. You still owe me more."

Arthur groaned slightly, but he was a man of his words, and he saw the truth of her words. As much as he probably wanted to burn a hole in the ceiling (with much better results than if Ariadne were to) he continued on with his story.

"So we left the diner and the next week Mal and I broke up. Believe it or not, I wasn't too torn up about the whole deal. I hadn't been able to figure out what was wrong with my sister. And since it was obvious that Mal was going to try a long distance relationship with Cobb, I had my tie in with the mystery that was Cobb. Mal and I were still friends, so whenever she would go visit Cobb, I would go visit my sister with her.

"Until the month when there wasn't a single email from Rachel. I started checking my email obsessively, wondering what had happened to her. I called my parents to ask them if they had heard from Rachel. But they weren't worried. Evidently Rachel hadn't been as good about emailing them as she had been about emailing me. A month between communications wasn't abnormal for them. So, in order not to alarm my parents, I just told them that she must have gotten tired of emailing me and hung up.

"But in the next heartbeat I picked up the phone and called Mal, wondering if she knew what had happened to Rachel. But Mal, too, wouldn't pick up. She had said that she would be visiting her family in Paris, but she had been due back the day before.

"What I did next was probably the dumbest, but smartest move I have ever made. Rather than call and report a missing person, I said that I would wait a few days to see if she showed up. If Rachel or Mal didn't make an appearance after that, I would call the cops.

"Mal showed up the next day, breathless, at my door. Her hair was a mess and it looked like she hadn't changed clothes in a few days. But there was a wild look in her eyes that told me that I needed to listen. She ordered me to grab my keys—there was a problem. A problem with Rachel.

"She refused to answer any of my questions as I drove the four hours that it took to get to the hotel room where the three of them had been staying. When we got to the hotel room, the first thing I saw was my sister, with tubes running into her arms. Tubes that connected to a sliver suitcase."

Ariadne gasped, but Arthur spoke on. He was talking fast, and quiet, but the determination in his voice made Ariadne wonder if he had told anyone this before.

"I nearly blew up at Mal and Cobb. I thought they were doing experiments on my sister. I thought that she was in danger. She looked so vulnerable laying there on the floor, her hair short and choppy. They had been on the run—that much was certain. Cobb was looking scruffy and his suit had the markings of disrepair. He even had a bandage wrapped around his upper arm, and when I looked at Mal, she was limping.

"They calmed me down enough to explain everything.

"Rachel had been working with Cobb for the last year, delving into dreams for information. I had never heard of that before. It sounded ridiculous. There was no way that anyone could jump into other people's dreams. But they continued to explain. All that traveling hadn't been because of cheerleading competitions. She had actually lost her scholarship because she had basically quit school to dream dive. I still couldn't believe them—I thought they were crazy. I thought that maybe Rachel had fallen in with crazies. That their brains were addled from drug over dosage.

"But then they told me that Rachel was in trouble. And that they needed my help. I couldn't tell them no. If my baby sister was in danger, wacky story or not, I had to do something for her.

"So I told them yes, I would do anything to help them. I just wanted to see my baby sister off of the floor. I wanted to see her back at her happiest. I wanted to see her back in her favorite dress and long hair done up, rather than laying on the floor in lumberjack clothing and roughly cut hair.

"It was then that they told me what happened. It was a job gone right that suddenly went wrong. They had extracted all the information they needed out of their target, and Rachel had delivered it to the company. The money was wired to their accounts and they were on their way home when disaster struck.

"It seemed that Rachel hadn't delivered the right information to the company, and the company knew it. They chased the three of them to the hotel room and told them that they had four days to figure out what the real information was or suffer the consequences. Since Rachel had been the one to get the information out of the target, Cobb and Mal had no idea what the information was. They didn't know what else to do. So they put Rachel under when she tried to run and Mal had set off to find me. In their mad scramble to figure out the correct information, they had come up with one shaky plan. And of course, I was their only hope.

"They needed me to recreate our house, a place where Rachel felt the safest, so that they could extract the information from her. I had never done anything like that before, but it was the only thing they could think of to help Rachel. She was already suspicious, having been forced to sleep by the PASIV, so it wouldn't do to have the two of them roaming around her dreams. Their only hope was to have me get the information out of her. To her, I didn't know anything about the dream business, so there was no way I could be the one stealing the information from her.

"So I learned, and I learned quickly. By the time day four had come, I was ready to enter her mind."

"Wait, Rachel was under for _four_ days?" Ariadne exclaimed, and Arthur had to shush her.

"Not so loud!"

"Sorry!"

"But, yes, she was under for four days. The extraction went as well as possible, and when the men showed up at the door for their information, I was able to give it to them.

"But being under the PASIV for that long ruined something in Rachel. Four days is long enough in regular terms, but in a dream world where everything moves so much quicker, she had aged. It sounds totally cliché to say, but Rachel had aged. And when she woke up and saw that I had really been in her dream, she didn't do anything but stare off into space and run her fingers through her short hair.

"It took her a while for her to talk to me again, and she never went back to dreaming. But I did. Oh, did I. from then on, I took over Rachel's place as information collector, as point man and I excelled. The three of us formed a team. The rest, as you know, is history."

The weight of the silence that filled the room would have been too heavy for a cow scale. Ariadne considered all the facts that Arthur had told her and her mind only came to one conclusion.

"So your first Dream job was to save your sister's life."

"Rachel doesn't see it as that way."

"But it's true," Ariadne insisted. "You gave the men the information that ended up saving her life."

Arthur just "hmmmmed" which was not comforting.

"What kind of information would have caused Rachel to lie to people in power?" Ariadne asked aloud.

"That, my dear," Arthur said quietly, "Is a question for another time."

And with that, he rolled over in bed, and Ariadne knew that the discussion was over.

That did not stop her mind from wandering.

* * *

_I hope that this update was enough to wait two weeks for. Again, I'm really sorry. I started this Monday of this week, and, no lie, I had NO TIME to even write another sentence until now, 9:17 on Sunday night. My schedule is going crazy all around me, and of course, I manage to get sick. You can thank all of my classmates and my mother for my flu symptoms and general ill will for the last week._

_Again, sorry for the wait! And thanks to those of you who are going to review to this chapter, even though it is way overdue!_

_I would do a shout out to all those who reviewed two weeks ago, but I figure that y'all probably want an update more than a shout out. I love you all!_

_Please review! Let me know that you don't hate me for not updating!_


	9. Bowling

_Thanks to all of you who reviewed! Can I tell you? I have 100 reviews. And I don't even have 10 chapters yet. And even if I had ten chapters, that would still be an amazing feat! I love all of y'all for making this story extra fun to write!_

_Sorry about the lateness of the update. I'm a loser, and so is my school/life schedule._

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Nine

_Wherein Planning actually takes place_

* * *

The next morning, Ariadne actually woke up before Arthur did. It was a feat, considering Ariadne slept like a rock and Arthur loved greeting the sun with the roosters across the road. There was a thrill, Ariadne felt, in waking up before Arthur did. It seemed to prove to her in a strange way that Arthur did sleep at night. He didn't stay up all night plotting. He was human. He did need rest. Ariadne didn't remember ever seeing Arthur asleep while they were working on the Fischer job, except when he was under the influence of the PASIV.

The PASIV. Ariadne's train of thought suddenly jumped tracks from human Arthur to the story he had told the night before during their group therapy session. Passively, as she brushed her teeth, Ariadne wondered what it would be like to wake up with three days of her life gone. As she brushed her molars, she realized suddenly that it wasn't just three days of her life that would have been missing.

When Rachel had woken up all those years ago, she had had to deal with the fact that those _weeks_ she had spent in her dream world were fake. That they were unreal; that all the occurrences, all of her interactions, were just a figment of her imagination. It would be difficult, then, to tell what was real and what wasn't. Had her best friends really and deliberately forced her into a false slumber? Had they invaded her mind? What was real? She had been trapped in her own dream, so her totem was no use.

Ariadne stopped brushing her teeth with the toothbrush mid-swipe. Maybe that's why Mal had come up with the idea of totems. Maybe Rachel hadn't had a totem before all of this began, so she wasn't able to differentiate between a dream and reality. Ariadne's fingers twitched unheeded towards the bathroom counter. Three months ago, her chess piece would have been there, waiting to topple in its orderly way. Its one-eighty degree spin after its topple would have reassured her that her life was the exact opposite of what she thought it was. It would reassure her that it wasn't a dream. But the chess piece wasn't there. It was tucked away in her suitcase, for the times after the job when reality seemed a little bit too exciting to be real and for when the midnight dreams stopped and she wondered if it was possible to dream in a dream.

She resumed brushing her teeth when she felt a vein of foamy spit make its careful way down her chin.

It all sort of made sense now, Rachel's reaction to her brother's job. Rachel knew personally how invasive jobs like these were. And Rachel wasn't dumb enough to think that Arthur just happened to run into three of his "best friends" in some small town in Virginia. Two friends that she had never heard about in the course of her correspondence with her brother.

Then another interesting, less sad and dreadful thought hit Ariadne.

Arthur had told Rachel about her. Rachel had said so herself. Rachel had told Ariadne that Arthur said she was a great architect. So, somewhere in their sibling chatter, Ariadne had been mentioned. Ariadne nearly gave a squeal of extreme success, but she quit halfway through when she realized that such a squeal would have ended up with half of the toothpaste out of her mouth and onto the mirror.

So instead she contented herself with picturing what Arthur must have looked like when he told Rachel all about his dear Ariadne. Her first vivid daydream wanted to be of a completely gushing Arthur, who had a sappy look in his eyes that sparkled every time he brought up her name. She wanted his cheeks to flush red when he thought of her, but that train of thought hit a herd of problems very quickly and was stopped. For one, Ariadne had never seen Arthur turn red, except on one occasion. He didn't even get red when he was cold and she was certain that he would turn red because of cold far before he ever got red because of her. The second problem that she ran into as the fact that "Sappy" and "Arthur" belonged in the same sentence as much as "Happy," and "Genocide" did.

So Ariadne was forced to admit to herself that Arthur probably looked a lot like he normally did when he talked. Straight faced, completely matter of fact, gelled hair and all. Ariadne almost wished that he might have had a half smile on his face, until she realized that she hated his half smile. It carried a connotation… a connotation of supremacy. And since Ariadne liked to think herself the best person around, such smirks were not acceptable.

Arthur walked into the open bathroom while Ariadne was trying to figure out just how Arthur (and his step father) were able to contort their faces into such ghastly shapes. She had one side of her lips up, the other in a straight line, when Arthur cleared his throat. Face frozen, her eyes flicked up on the mirror to where she spotted Arthur standing, amused, behind her.

"If you want to practice looking unattractive, I suggest you take lessons from Eames. I've noticed he's rather good at it." Arthur said, with a scratch at his cheek. Even in the morning he looked freshly shaved. Ariadne wondered if this was normal. Judging by Eames and her brother, it was not.

"I'm practicing looking like you," Ariadne turned around to face Arthur. "So if you are saying you're unattractive…"

"Well, if you're trying to look like me: A) copying is the sincerest form of flattery, so thank you. And, B) if that's you trying to be me… well, for the first time in my life I'm glad we have Eames along. You'd be the worst Forger ever."

Ariadne didn't have anything to say to that, so she turned around with as much dignity as she still possessed and screwed the cap back on her toothpaste. With a regal pivot, she exited the bathroom without a word to Arthur.

When she sat down at the island and saw what Ms. James had placed before her for consumption and spotted Orange Juice as the only drink option, she wondered why in the world she had brushed her teeth before breakfast.

* * *

"Bowling," Eames explained as he toed the line painted on the floor, "Is the perfect place to have any sort of conversation."

Ariadne, Yusuf, Arthur and Eames had all been tied into their blue and red bowling shoes and had escaped the rage of Ms. James by escaping to the only other form of entertainment in the town besides fishing on the nearby river: the bowling alley.

Eames lined up his sights and with a graceful few steps, hurled the ball down the greased track where it crashed against the pins at the opposite end with a satisfying crunch. As similar sounds echoed around the building, Ariadne understood just why it was that bowling alleys were the perfect place for covert, slightly illegal interactions. It was a place of community, and loud. People doing underhanded deals like they were could plan without being overheard and they didn't look suspicious.

Plus, there was the added bonus of greasy food and the opportunity to see Yusuf stumble around in his shoes.

"I am forced to agree," Arthur said in reply to Eames' previous statement.

As "STRIKE" scrolled across the info board above their lane, Eames gave a satisfied smirk. Whether it was because of his strike or because of Arthur's forced concession, Ariadne wasn't sure. But at the moment, it didn't matter.

"So, we all know that my little sister poses a problem," Arthur said. He was wearing khaki dress pants, which was as close to casual as he was likely to get, so Ariadne soaked in the moment. He was also going tie-less, as his mother had confiscated the whole bunch of them saying that she would not have her son going around uncomfortable in his own house. From the way he kept touching his neck, subconsciously, Ariadne guessed that he was more uncomfortable without a tie than he was with a tie.

"Yes she does," Yusuf said, failing again to stand without gripping the armrest of his chair. He fetched his own silver bowling ball and took his turn. The conversation continued on as he watched the ball run down the path.

"So, Ariadne has come up with a way to make my sister less suspicious of our actions. She has proposed that we get my father to get his flu shots, or some sort of shot, so that we can mask the needle marks that the PASIV makes."

"That poses a problem," Yusuf interjected after taking his second shot. "Spare!" flashed above him, and suddenly Ariadne felt great dread at her turn. She had never been able to bowl without bumpers.

"And what is the problem?" Ariadne asked, hoping to hold off her own turn for as long as was humanly possible.

"The shot needs to be given in an intravenous area if we want to cover it up. Most flu shots are given in the upper arm. We can't connect the PASIV up there. There isn't a big enough vein."

"Wait, what's 'intravenous'?" Ariadne asked, feeling slightly stupid.

"Giving a shot into a vein," Arthur explained. He motioned to the lane. "Are you ever going to bowl?"

Ariadne shot him the dirtiest look she could, and walked as slowly as she could toward the ball drop off area. She picked up the lightest ball—she wasn't a huge person with huge muscles, nor was she a male that was trying to show off his strength. Wishing on whatever stars were in the sky at the moment—even though it was the middle of the day—she tossed her ball down the lane and willed safe passage not in the gutters. Surprisingly, the ball rolled true and when it knocked down four pins at the end, she thought maybe she had been doing herself a disservice all of those years, bowling with bumpers. Her second ball clipped the edge of another pin, which brought down its buddy.

Six pins—not bad for her first time bowling without bumpers.

"The best I can tell," Eames was saying when she got back, "is that we'll need to connect the PASIV in an area that can't be seen."

No one seemed to notice that she had knocked down six whole pins, and Ariadne was tempted to point it out to them. Then she remembered that the two men in front of her had knocked down all of their pins, so she decided that it was best not to bring it to their attention.

Arthur was up, and when he walked off, stride heavier on the left foot, the conversation died down. It was obvious that everyone wanted to see how Arthur did. He was hardly brawny, but he was athletic. Paired with the fact that he seemed to be good at everything, it was no surprise that the ball slid down the lane like there was a string guiding it. It smacked into the pins with a satisfied (and unwelcome) smash, toppling all of the pins.

Ariadne wished, not for the first time, that Arthur was bad at something.

"I was thinking," Arthur said to the group of disgruntled faces he came back to—

"And here I was, thinking 'What great focus this boy has!'." Eames drawled, picking apart the lining of one of the bowling alley chairs.

Arthur ignored him. "Like I said, I was thinking: since we can't connect it into the back of the hand, why not his wrist? My father wears a watch every day of his life—even while gardening. It has a thick enough band that it should cover up the puncture marks."

The group conceded to his point—not for the first time, and they continued on with their bowling game. The only other business related topic that came up was that Ariadne needed to start making a model of the house to use in the dream world.

The rest of their discussion centered around whether or not Ariadne was a pixie and Eames wondering if their chili cheese fries would look good in Arthur's face after his seventh strike.

* * *

Convincing the James family that she needed to work on a model of their house turned out to be much more of a breeze than Ariadne expected. She had expected Rachel to give her questioning looks, not the look of excitement that Ariadne actually received.

When Ariadne announced that it would be awesome if she could make a mini model of their house, the James family—including Arthur—dumped interesting fact after interesting fact on her. The house had been in their possession for a long time. And before that, it had been a family house and they had got it when Mr. James' father passed away. It would be passed on to Arthur, even though he wasn't blood related. Did she see the crown moldings? because they had been done by Mr. James himself.

The house was old. That was about all Ariadne had picked out from their crazed blabber. The family was obviously proud of their house—which made Ariadne's job all the harder. If they loved it so much, they would be more likely to notice if she did something wrong.

Mr. James was so excited for her to make a model that he showed her to his woodworking garage right after dinner. She and he clomped a ways into the woods where his garage was located, and he showed her all of his tools.

He was a nice man—that was the first impression she got of him. He was standoffish, like Arthur, but once she got him talking about something he liked, he couldn't stop his chatter. His half smile was infectious and the way he talked about his tools made her excited to use them. Never had a band saw looked so interesting and never had a hammer been handled in such a gentle way.

He was meticulous about details—each hanger was labeled with the tool it held. Each screwdriver had its own place. All the nails in his large shop were facing the same way and, despite what she thought she would find in a woodworking garage, there was not a scrap of sawdust to be seen.

"You're very clean," she noted. Mr. James nodded, but his smile faded a little when she said it. He ran his hand familiarly and absentmindedly across his work table.

"Yes, I am." The corners of his lips quirked up a bit. "Recent events make this place a little neater than I'd like it to be."

She was just about to ask what was making his hideaway—it was obvious that he loved the garage—cleaner more recently, when Arthur pulled open the manual garage door. Under his arm, he had a stack of wood and next to him was the plywood he had obviously had to drop to pull the big door open.

"You know, there is a front door," Ariadne giggled, pointing to the Dutch-style door she and Mr. James had come in through.

"Eh," Arthur shrugged, placing some of the wood on the table. "It's easier to get things into the garage through the big door."

Mr. James had been watching Arthur and he gave him a pat on the back as he left. They were close to the same height, and for the first time, Ariadne realized that Arthur wasn't actually all that tall a person. With this new thought to consider, Ariadne sorted the wood Arthur had brought into the woodshop.

It took him four trips to bring enough wood for her to chose from. And even when he had finished bringing the wood, he didn't leave. Instead, he pulled a stool up to the work table and watched her as she worked.

"Your dad seemed a little bit sad about being out here," Ariadne started, considering two pieces of plywood for damage.

"Yeah," Arthur said, sliding a better piece of plywood across the table. "He hasn't been able to do a whole lot of work for a while. He was a carpenter before we moved here. Did you know that?"

Ariadne stopped looking at the wood to look up at Arthur. "Huh. I guess it kind of fits. Why'd he stop?"

"Well, in a town where everyone has owned their houses for a million years, there was only fix-it jobs for him to do. There were no new houses being built. So he switched professions. He was able to keep up carpentry as a hobby though."

Arthur gestured around to the shop.

"He hasn't been able to do as much carpentry work recently though. Arthritis is setting in, and bad." Arthur shrugged sadly. "He can cut big pieces of wood, but his hands are so achy that he can't do the detailed work he is so well known for. The crown moldings in our house are the last thing he really did."

"So that's why thing are so clean out here?" Ariadne had stopped looking at wood and was now looking around the woodshop.

"I think so. Even if he can't work with his tools, I think he still likes being out here—you would too, with my crazy mother." Arthur smiled a bit when he said it. "But since he can't really work, I think he just putters around. He wants to do something out in his shop, so he just cleans it.

"He's really excited for someone to be using it again. He'll probably want to be out her, working with you. But I think he's a little too shy to ask…" Arthur petered out, leaving his veiled request hidden.

"Do you want me to ask him if he want s to help?" Ariadne asked, returning her attention to the wood.

"If you would, I think that my step-dad would be really pleased."

While Ariadne nodded her consent, she inwardly wondered how in the world Arthur and Mr. James weren't related. Or why Mr. James hadn't adopted Arthur as his son. It was obvious that the two had a father-son connection. Arthur loved his step-father. Mr. James loved his step-son.

Ariadne figured that the pair of them were both just too shy and worried to bring it up with each other.

She shook off her thoughts—there was no need to focus on the depressing side of Mr. James and Arthur's relationship. They seemed content enough to live as they were. Instead she asked business questions.

"So, as I'm building this, anything I need to know?" She asked, lifting the piece of plywood she had chosen for the base of the house. "Any trick stairs? Any hidden rooms? Stains on carpet."

"Nope." Arthur said, self-assured. "Nothing hidden at my house. There's nothing for you to overlook."

"And what about you?" Ariadne asked. The look Arthur gave her in return was confused.

"Is there anything for you to overlook? We can't have another mess up like the Fischer job." Ariadne was teasing, but the look on Arthur's face was completely un-amused.

"I got distracted, okay. And you should not be teasing me. It was partially your fault it happened."

Ariadne scoffed. "Oh, high and mighty. Please tell me how _you_ overlooking the fact that Fischer's subconscious was militarized was my fault." She stacked a few more pieces of wood and then went to grab a measuring tape. She was stopped when she heard his next words.

"Because you were the one that distracted me."

* * *

_Again, I apologize for the two week break in between updating. If you want to trade lives with me, I will willingly sign away by pitiful life to you. I haven't done anything social in the last two weeks because I have been so bogged down in responsibilities. You know your life is packed when your best friend's parents say that they miss you. C:_

_Please review! Again, I won't be doing my normal shout outs. I figure I should just get this posted._

_REVIEW! I love them! They are food for thought, and you know how things go. No food=no creative energy. (Just kidding. ;D)_


	10. Confessionals

_Look at me! I'm kind of on time! Huzzah! (Bahaha. I wrote that on Wednesday)_

_Quickly, let me tell you that y'all are SO amazing. This is by far my most successful (119 reviews for 9 chapters?) story and it is all because of you! Gah! Every time stupid school makes me feel down, I just think of y'all and wah-bang! I feel better._

_Any of y'all play Dragon Age? Any of you? Because the second one has become my most recent obsession…_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Ten

_Wherein Ariadne realizes that Arthur isn't made out of rocks_

* * *

The grain on the wood was quite a lovely thing, she decided. So many lines, all running together and yet a part of a distinct group. If she were any kind of deep thinker or philosopher, she would find a world meaning in those lines. They were so… _parallel_. They looked like stacked paper but they stuck together, even when they had to run around a knot in their perfect pattern. Ariadne searched for a soul defining meaning in the wood. Because her brain seemed to be intent on analyzing any words but the ones Arthur had just spoken.

"_Because you were the one that distracted me._"

They echoed around in her skull like a racquetball in a cave.

"_Because you were the one that distracted me._"

The wood was textured. If angels ever ran out of harps, way up there in the clouds, they could play their heavenly music on the ridges of this wood. She would not think about Arthur and his words. She would not over analyze them and end up being dumped to the side of the road like odd pieces of plywood.

And yet, she knew that if she didn't face up to them, there would only be awkward looks from here on out. Car rides would be torturous. One look at Arthur's searching face told her that much. There would be no peace at mealtimes. There would not be teasing and playful ragging. No, all that would stop.

Oh, and going to bed for the next few days would be a _joy_. Ariadne could almost feel the oppressive air of the embarrassment she would feel as she pulled her quilt up to her chin. There would be no rest. Every move would remind her of who was asleep on the bunk below. She had never been good at science, but she always over analyzed things. She would spend her whole life wondering if she didn't ask Arthur what in the world he meant by those words.

"_Because you were the one that distracted me_."

Ariadne knew she was over reacting (and over analyzing) but she was a female. And he was a very attractive male. She had to know what he was thinking.

"Ummmm…" Ariadne managed to squeeze out of her mouth before shutting her lips. She had no idea what she was supposed to say. "Please explain?"

Arthur, too, seemed very interested in the veins of the wood. As he picked at the wood, Ariadne refused to let her mind think that it was a harp. Because no angel would torture her like he did.

"I, er…" Arthur began, biting his lower lip. It seemed that Ariadne wasn't the only one with a mouth that shot off like a cannon when its owner was least expecting it. It was obvious that there were a few words that Arthur wanted to net and pull back into his mouth.

For once, Ariadne felt a bit more in control of the situation. She was in no ways cool and collected—her face was about the color of a stoplight and her palms had enough sweat on them to grease a bike chain. Her courage mostly came from the fact that Arthur looked just about as red as she did. And it was strangely comforting to see Arthur uncomfortable. It proved that there was actually a heart beating in that chest of his, and not just a rock rattling around to sound like a pulse.

She waited for him to continue. There was no use in pushing him. Arthur was about as stubborn as a mule and just about as hard to move when push came to shove. He would talk when he needed to. He must have learned that particular habit from his Step-father. Ariadne absentmindedly thought that it would have been nice if Rachel had inherited that trait from her father. Ariadne was so wrapped up in her wishful musings about a quiet Rachel that she was startled when Arthur started talking again.

"Well, there's no way around it. It's true."

Ariadne blinked in surprise. And then blinked again. Arthur's face had cleared up. It was no longer red. It was no longer carried the expression of a cornered animal. And suddenly, Ariadne didn't feel in control of the situation any longer. There was the same old face on Arthur. It was the face of a man who had had a shoot-off with himself on a dusty road and had come off on top. He had a face of the man who had come to a conclusion, and there was no turning back.

And Ariande had the feeling that she was about to be barreled over by his train of thought.

"I'm kind of tired of denying it. To myself. I've always been very honest with myself about things—I know my short comings."

Momentarily Ariadne wondered just what his shortcomings were—Not liking Tuna Casserole was hardly a short coming: He managed to choke it down like a pro.

"Your shortcomings?" Ariadne nearly let out a puff of laughter.

"Haha." The laugh was not amused. It seemed that Arthur would not be distracted from his task. He was just like that: always forward thinking. No looking back, no looking to the side. Nothing would distract him from the job at hand.

And yet, there she stood: Ariadne, the exception to the rule.

"I'd never messed up on something before. See, unlike some people in our troupe, I like working for my pay and not doing a half hearted job to get full plus benefits." It was obvious he was talking about Eames. Ariadne had to agree. That man took coffee breaks between every thirty minute session of spinning on his computer chair.

"Then came the Fischer Job. Don't ever tell Cobb this, but I was excited to do it. I was excited for the challenge. I relish working on dreams." He seemed to consider something for a second. When he resumed talking, his train of thoughts had completely jumped tracks.

"I'm a person reader. I think my biggest hobby is just studying people and trying to figure out what's going on in their brain. I like reading facial expressions, body language. Each person is a different puzzle. It's a chance to see if I'm as perceptive as I'd like to think I am. If I pick up on the minute details of a person and guess what's going on, I consider it a personal victory when I'm right. It gives me an ego boost. If I'm wrong about a person…" he stopped and furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, I've never been wrong."

Ariadne scoffed. "It's that a little bit… high thinking of yourself?"

Arthur turned his furrowed eyebrows toward her and raised them very, very slowly. "Well, if we want to be factual, I never have been wrong. I might have had no idea about a person, but in those cases I didn't even try to guess what was going on with them. All of the times I've guessed, I _have_ been right."

Ariadne wished for a moment that Arthur was not an alien boy. His uknown father had obviously been an alien because only extra terrestrials would have the brain capacity to tangle with the problems Arthur faced. And with such grace and finesse and success. And only aliens would have the technology to turn her knobby knees into space dust and her eyes into flying saucers every time he came around.

"So I was excited to get to know Fischer through my observations."—ah, it finally tied in together—"and to figure out a way to plant an idea. To tell you the truth, that power is almost God-like. Ideas are what spawn everything we've ever made. A steamboat came from an idea. A printer, an airplane, the PASIV, even the humble marshmallow. I was excited to exercise that power, to see if it would work."

Arthur sighed and steepled his fingers.

"And then you came along. You, the budding new architect. So fresh faced. So worried and concerned for Cobb. From the moment I saw you… I knew what to think of you. For those months that you sat across the aisle from me, there was no need to guess what you were going to do next. I just knew what was going to happen. There was and is something open about you. There's no hiding anything with you. If you're sad, you're sad. If you're worried, you frown. If you think something's stupid, you raise your eyebrow at it. You are the perfect example of body language. You were so easy to read, I didn't have to guess.

"I guess I just got passive with my observations. I got careless and lazy. With you, I was always right. I even stopped guessing because I knew that I was right. I knew I was. And I love being right. So I spent all of my time watching you, waiting for me to be right. You proved me right with every move you made. I knew that you were right handed before you started writing. I knew that you were the kind of person that liked Billy Joel and Neapolitan ice cream before you ever showed an interest in them. Your favorite channel to watch is the History Channel, isn't it?"

Ariadne furrowed her eyebrows and nodded. She had a soft spot for documentaries and shows with deep announcer voices. She wondered if there was some telling sign. Did she have it written on her forehead? The way he read her made her think that he could read minds.

"See, I'm always right." He smiled briefly, and then he went back to frowning. Obviously missing something on the Fischer job had made him unhappy.

"I was so caught up in always being right that I let things slip through my net. I got so full of myself that I slacked off in my duties as information gatherer. If I could read you as well as I could, I thought, I could read anyone. I got cocky. I got full of myself. When it came to Fischer, I thought that I knew everything…"

He trailed off. They sat in silence for a while the only sound coming from the woodland creatures outdoors. Ariadne swore she heard a rabbit leaping through the grass outside. At any other time, she would have run outside to see it—it wasn't often that she got to see wildlife, living in the city and all. But now was not the time. Arthur had done the most talking he had in a while.

"And so when we figured out that Fischer's mind was militarized, I about had a heart attack. I had let something slip through. I wasn't the brick wall of defense the team needed."

"And this was all my fault?" Ariadne asked, smiling.

"And it was all your fault."

There was an awkward silence before Ariadne said, "Oh, sorry about that then. You must have felt pretty down for a while. You know—almost getting Saito and Cobb killed and all must have been a real rainstorm on your parade."

"Don't be sorry." Arthur said quickly. "I actually don't regret it."

Ariadne had to take a moment to stretch her neck. At his last comment, Ariadne had looked so quickly over at him that she had cricked her neck. It was uncharacteristic of him to be so blunt and so uncaring. Cobb was his best friend—his nearly being stuck in Limbo must have been at least slightly devastating.

"Say what?" Ariadne asked, her tongue nearly getting ahead of her speech.

"No, well that sounded weird." Arthur rushed to clarify. "Cobb and Saito being danger was no good. But all that I learned about you… I wouldn't give it back. It's what made me like you as much as I do."

"Wait… you like me?" Ariadne nearly squeaked, voice raising to a pitch nearly akin to a dog whistle.

Arthur sighed and leaned back in the high barstool he was sitting at. "I thought we already went over this."

Ariadne's eyeballs must have told him that she had not understood what he was talking about. "You _like_ like me?

"Do we have to regress to middle school? Yes, I _like_ like you. All that studying I did of you over the last months lead me to believe that, yes, I do 'like like' you. "

"Like, you would consider dating me?"

"Yes, I would consider dating you. In fact, I'm asking you right now."

Ariadne's brain flashed into overdrive, resorting to her childhood way of dealing with stress

_Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall_

_Ninety-nine bottles of beer_

_Take one down_

_Pass it around_

_Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall_

Arthur liked her… and wanted to date her…that was a new concept to think about. He was so… stoic. She never expected him to have any feelings towards her except: angry and less angry. Or completely indifferent. And yet here he was, bearing his very soul to her—

_Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall_

_Ninety-eight bottles of beer_

_Take one down_

_Pass it around_

_Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall_

-no, she had to think about it. It would do her no good to clam up here. This boy, the boy who had haunted her dreams—the very boy who made her glad she had stopped dreaming for a while—was saying that he liked her. And, oh my goodness, she had used "_like_ like." What must he have thought of her? ("_Bahah! That girl Ariadne—she looks like a middle schooler and talks like one too. She's a riot, that girl."_)

Back to coping—

_Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall_

_Ninety-seven bottles of beer_

_Take one down_

_Pass it around_—

"Ariadne?" Arthur's hand was warm on her arm. And that was saying something, seeing as how Ariadne was hot enough to make microorganisms form a new ecosystem in around her.

"Yes?" If her air supply had been any more cut off, she would have died of asphyxiation.

"Are you going to say anything? I kind of just bared my soul there. I just destroyed my manly image by telling you that I _like_ liked you."

-_ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall!_

"Ah… right." Her voice was shaky. "You're sure you like me?"

"Uh huh," Arthur nodded.

"You sure you aren't just pulling my leg?"

The look Arthur gave her told her that there was no way he would, should, or could pull someone's leg. Doing so would be akin to jumping a fence or stealing an old person's walker to run around Wal-Mart.

"Oh, well you aren't pulling my leg. I just wanted to make sure, because, well… I kinda sorta like you a lot too."

She felt so elementary saying it that way. What a lousy way to sum up all of her feelings. The things she had mused on for so long, rolled up into such a poorly constructed sentence. In all of her fantasies about her and Arthur confessing their undying attraction and love for each other, she had never pictured herself so… ineloquent.

And the words "_like_ like" were never ever considered, nor thought possible. That was for certain.

But the look on Arthur's wide face told her that there was nothing to be worried about. For once his stoic expression was replaced by a genuine smile. His eyes lost the worry that usually accompanied them and the frown lines that usually accented the corners of his mouth were gone.

He didn't give her a lousy half smile.

He gave her a full smile.

And better yet:

Dimples.

Dimples deep enough to serve soup out of appeared out of nowhere, so deep they threatened to make permanent wrinkles of their own.

The silence that filled the woodshed at that moment was awkward, that was for sure. But it was a comforting awkward. It was the silence of a kept secret; the silence of two friends who had just shared similar embarrassing experiences.

Which Ariadne realized: both were true. Only they were more than simple friends now.

"Well, that certainly makes my life a bit easier." Arthur said after a few mintues of avoiding eye contact. "Now I can be completely honest with you."

"Didn't you always say that honesty is the best policy?" Ariadne teased, glad for the break in the silence. She bumped her elbow against his arm. She expected it to feel different, now that she knew what he felt about her. But it felt the same. She was not disappointed. She didn't want anything to change between the two of them. She just wanted things to get even better.

"I did, and I still hold to it." Arthur held up a knowledgeable finger, as if pointing to himself as the one who knew what was what. "I will, however, say for the sake of honesty, that while I was always one hundred percent honest, there was a ceiling to my honesty. I did omit facts if it suited my purposes."

"So you were honest to a point?" Ariadne summarized, starting to gather up her chosen wood pieces once again.

"Indeed," Arthur answered, scooting away from the work table to get out of the way of Ariadne's reach.

"But now you are going to be completely honest with me?" Ariadne began stacking the wood, longest to shortest.

"Indeed," Arthur said again.

"So tell me this," Ariadne said, pausing in her stacking. "You said that watching me is what made you like me. What is it about me that you saw that made you like me?"

"You want to know why I like you?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows. Ariadne wanted to comment that he was a fine person to look at when you wanted to know what to look for making other people feel stupid.

"That's what I asked, isn't it?"

"Okay," Arthur gave her a quizzical look. "I've already answered this. I like you because there are no questions with you. You are what you are, and very blatantly too. I don't have to guess with you. You think something is cute, you coo at it. You get angry and you stomp you foot."

"Wait." Ariadne held up a halting hand." You're saying that you like me because I'm easy to read?"

"No. I'm saying like you because I don't feel the need to figure you out. Because I _don'_t need to figure you out. I already know you."

* * *

_So, whaddya think? I know it sounds weird, but I tried to make that as awkward as possible. I can't picture these two having an overly dramatic or romantic get together. What do y'all think? I'm really nervous about this chapter. But I got tired of seeing lovey-dovey confession scenes between Ariadne and Arthur in other Fanfics. So I went out on a limb and wrote a really, really, really awkward scene for the two of them. And I think it fit! At least I hope it did, cuz that's all you're getting_

_Oh, and let's not forget the fact that this girl is incapable of writing anything but awkward "romance" scenes. (Notice how I put romance in quotation marks? I wouldn't even consider this romance…)_

_Oh, FYI. I don't know if you've noticed, but I love using "train of thought" in weird-o personifications/metaphors. I think in every piece of writing I've ever written I've had someone bowled over by someone else's train of thought. I can picture it: a giant train called Thought plowing over a poor cartoon version of whatever character I happen to be writing. It makes me laugh to myself. And sometimes, it even makes me chuckle aloud. And then I get weird looks. But then I raise my eyebrow at my fellow man in a "What do you want/what are you looking at me for/freak! Look somewhere else" way and they leave me alone._

_Dude. I can't even form coherent sentences. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. It's time for sleeping._

_Review pleases! I'll give you assorted cheeses. (Can you tell I need sleep?)_


	11. Cubed Hearts

_Look at me! I'm actually writing this story on time! (Bahaha… This was two weeks ago…)_

_And can I just say again how AWESOME all of you reviewers are? Or anyone who is reading my story? I already have over 100 alerts on this story and more than 10,000 hits. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE! (I use over punctuation to get my point across!) Let me give you a little background on this story so you can see why I am so surprised:_

_I was driving up to Virginia for holiday and me and my sister got to talking about Inception. I had read a few Inception fanfics and I thought they were terrific. A few of my fantasies were not coming true with these fic. None of them made Arthur out to be the way I pictured them but that wasn't imporant, blah blah blah. Minor details. Then my sister got it into her head that I was going to write a story for her and here we stand._

_What started out as just a story for my little sister is now my most popular story…_

_And guess what: It's all thanks to y'all. C; Really, a writer would be nothing without her readers._

_This chapter is a bit more serious. And, sadly, it does not feature too much Arthur/Ariadne._

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Eleven

_Wherein Ariadne has a heart-to-heart with several people_

* * *

Rachel, it seemed, had become the biggest problem to any forward progress the team would make.

For one, she and Yusuf seemed to have come to heads at some point—probably about basketball—and were now sending dagger eyes each other's way at all times. It was almost oppressive to be in the same room as the two of them. Ariadne didn't know how it was at all possible. The two had known each other for a grand total of four days—that wasn't enough time to build a grudge. But at meal times—when Yusuf was invited to dinner—it was almost as if there were sparks of electric hatred flying over the table and Rachel and Yusuf were the two competing nodes. Even Ms. James's chicken cordon bleu could not distract the others at the table from the heat of hate that was emitting from the two.

And secondly, Rachel and Eames seemed to have become best friends. While this was pleasant at first, it caused some serious issues and more stress for Ariadne's over taxed brain. Eames was getting less work done that usual—at that was saying a lot. While he used to at least attempt to seem like he was doing work by browsing on the internet, he straight up did not do any work at all now. He said that they were "supposed to look like we're on vacation."

But they were doing a job, and it required some work on his part. He needed to be studying people, learning their ticks and their traits. But at this rate, the only person he would be able to imitate would be Rachel. That was the only person he was paying attention to in the entire house.

Which, in turn, brought other problems. Because, as Ariadne reminded him in private one day, they were still pretending to be engaged.

"Darling, darling. I think we both act mature enough that this shouldn't seem to bother you." He said with an easy grin when she brought it up.

"I don't think we could exactly call you 'mature.' That might be stretching the word a bit too thin. Plus, we don't need to give Arthur's family any reason to question our 'relationship.'" She used air-quotes around the word "relationship," because there was no relationship there. Only a friendship. And even that word was stretching it too much as Eames began to irk her more and more.

Eames let out a girlish giggle. "Dear me, Ariadne. I do believe that you are getting a bit jealous! Are you perhaps really in love with me?"

The way he was acting reminded Ariadne of a woman in a large dress and who took great pleasure in beating people with her overly large purse and walked with a dog hitched under one arm. And Ariadne felt like that dog, the air slowly being squeezed out of her as Eames continued his maniacal laughter. Really, she didn't see what was so funny about the situation.

"Eames, I could hardly be jealous. In fact, if it weren't for keeping up appearances, I would _tell_ Rachel to take you off my hands. But since we are here _to do a job_, I will deal with you for a few days longer. Since I am doing you the favor of putting up with your idiotic nature, will you please do me the favor of acting like a near-thirty year old man and not like a seventeen year old diva?"

"Now now, there is no need to spoil my fun, pet—" With that, Ariadne had to walk out.

Because not only was Eames acting like an actress from the 1900s. He was starting to sound like one too.

* * *

She figured that there had to be some way to get back at Eames. In fact, the whole household was driving her around the bend. Ms. James, who had seemed so pleasant before, was starting to rub her the wrong way. Aridne pictured her feelings toward Ms. James like a giant cheese grater. At first, her feelings, the cheese, seemed to be working well with Ms. James, the cheese grater. But the more and more she interacted with her, the more Ariadne realized that she literally was being rubbed the wrong way. Instead of tiny curls of beautiful cheese falling to the plate, her feelings ended up as a smushed, gross mess.

There was something about Ms. James that Ariadne couldn't put her finger on. For all the love she showed Arthur, there seemed to be something… off about it. It had started with the Shampoo in the shower and the towels on the rack the first day there. They hadn't been new or replaced, like a mother would do when her son came home. It was almost like she hadn't expected Arthur to actually come home. Or that she didn't want him there.

Or that she didn't want him there long.

Ariadne couldn't figure it out. But all she knew was that the longer Arthur stayed, the louder and louder Ms. James became.

In fact, the noise level reached such peak the day after Arthur and Ariadne had spilled their feelings, that Ariadne found herself excusing herself back out to the woodshop to work on her model.

The summer Virginia air was surprisingly cool, after the heat of Paris's summer streets. It was a refreshing sort of air, and a cool breeze seemed to carry off a bit of Ariadne's stress and anger. It certainly did wonders for her abnormally red face. Ms. James had been speaking with such a loud volume to Arthur about his plans for his future that Ariadne had become a bit antsy and breathless. Not one for loudness, she had excused herself to the back. When the door snapped shut, Ariadne wondered for a minute if Mr. James had installed sound proof doors. Because Ariadne could see Ms. James inside one the couch next to Arthur, but she could not hear even a hum of their conversation.

Then she decided that it didn't matter because she needed to get away from all of that anyway.

The trek up to the workshop was calming and Ariadne could already hear her heart rate lowering.

Silently, she took up her tools and began working. For nearly a half hour she worked, tools in hand, nearly an extension of her fingers. Thirty minutes in and she had already nearly finished the lower floor of the house. She was working with the speed of a shark and with the tenacity of a bloodhound.

She almost didn't notice, in fact, when the bottom half of the Dutch-door opened up and Mr. James tiptoed in. She looked up from her work—bottle of glue in one hand and the piece of wood she was trying to attach in the other.

"Oh, I'm sorry dear," he said, starting to back track out of the door. But Ariadne stopped him.

"No, no! Come in!" She said, waving him onward with the glue bottle. "I could actually use your help."

There was a flash of eagerness on his face before it was replaced by his usual slightly smiling lips. He snapped the door shut and nearly pranced over to the work table.

"I didn't want to interrupt you." He explained, drawing a tall stool over to the high work table.

"No. You weren't interrupting me. Like I said, I could use your help." She gestured to the starting of the house before her. "I'm an architect in training. But I've spent so much time drawing buildings that I have hardly ever gotten around to actually building models of the buildings."

She then grinned a little bit. "I heard from Arthur that you're pretty handy with a saw. I could use your help."

He laughed a little. "I used to be handy with a saw." He held up his hands and Ariadne saw his swollen joints. She was surprised she hadn't noticed them before. With knots as big as kidney beans protruding from his fingers, Ariadne was surprised he was even able to pick up a spoon.

"Well, I should say that you still have an eye for taste," Ariadne countered. "If you could teach me the ins and outs of finer detail, that would be excellent. I'm growing up in a world that thrives on sleek lines and a lot of boxes. And that's about it."

Mr. James laughed and Ariadne couldn't help but join in. His light laughter was as infectious as the plague.

For the next few hours, the two spent their time building the house. Aridne did most of the fine work, but under the guiding light of Mr. James, she was able to make greater strides toward finally finishing it. He offered her many time-saving hints that she hadn't thought of before. He also knew the inside of his house better than she knew the inside of her own house. This was hardly surprising—he had lived in his house for nearly thirty years—and it turned out to be a great resource for her. He pointed out things that she would have never noticed and probably would have aroused his attention in the dream world had she forgotten them.

They were nowhere near finished with the house when they started talking about things not at all related to architecture. It was actually rather sudden, the change in topics.

"I'd like to thank you for being a friend to my son." Mr. James said as he handed her a piece of plywood.

Ariadne, who was still contemplating a thought he had just had about table saws, looked at him quickly.

"I'm sorry?" She said, taken aback by the sudden change in topic.

Mr. James flushed a bit. For a politician, he sure didn't seem to like talking to people. "I just wanted to thank you for being such a good friend to my step-son."

"Oh, no problem!" Ariadne rubbed the back of her head, embarrassed. She had no idea why she was so embarrassed so suddenly, but she was. She also suddenly wished that she had not rubbed the back of her head. The glue from building the model had stuck in her hair and when she pulled her hand away from her head, she felt giant chunks of hair departing from their home port.

"He's never been the… _friendly_ sort. I guess you could say that he's stand-offish. I trait he got from growing up with me, no doubt." A brief smile flashed across Mr. James' face. "I'm glad that he's been able to find such good friends as you and Eames."

Ariadne nearly had to snort at the fact that Mr. James thought Arthur and Eames were friends. But then again, the two of them were better actors that most gave them credit for. "Oh, think nothing of it. You did a good job raising Arthur. He's grown up to be a fine young man."

The way she said that made her seem like she was about seventy-six, but Mr. James didn't notice. In fact, he seemed a bit reassured by her last statement.

"Oh, well thank you for saying as much. I've always hoped that I was a good father figure for Arthur. I was always afraid that he wouldn't like me…"

"Because you aren't his real dad?" Ariadne asked, wondering how in the world Mr. James could think he was a bad father figure.

Mr. James seemed to consider for a few seconds and appeared to be teetering between two options. In the end, he shrugged. "Yes, I suppose."

"Well, I can tell you, Arthur has told me a bit about you. And from the way he's spoken of you, you wouldn't even think that you weren't his real father. I think he genuinely thinks of you as his father. If you're afraid of him going off to find his real father or trying to replace you, your fears are happily unfounded." Ariadne felt that her speech had used the word "father" a few too many times, but Mr. James seemed appeased.

"Yes…. Arthur is the loyal type." He nodded.

The two sat in silence for a few seconds. They did nothing, just pondered. The glue stayed on the table, and nothing was glued onto the model.

"Why won't you adopt him, Mr. James?" Ariadne asked when she was unable to control her question for any longer.

"Huh?" Mr. James started. He had obviously been involved in his own thoughts and had not heard what Ariadne had just blurted out.

"Why… won't you adopt him, Mr. James?" Ariadne asked again, this time more slowly and with more enunciation. It would do her no good to slur her words.

"Why won't I adopt Arthur?" He asked, reiterating her last statement and employing one of the strategies of communication: a skill that Ariadne lacked.

"Yes sir." She didn't know what else to say.

He sighed, and leaned back in his chair. In his doing so, Ariadne discovered that the chairs had backs that facilitated leaning back and decided that she would at one point see how far the springs in the chair would let her catapult things. He rubbed a gnarled hand across his face and gathered his thoughts.

"Let's just say that I have personal reasons for not wanting to adopt Arthur…" He said in a manner that closed _that_ passage of discussion, but invited her to continue questioning him.

"What was Arthur's real father like?" Ariadne asked. She figured that she may as well get all of her questions out of the way before Mr. James decided that it was no fun to play questioner-and-the-questioned.

In her mind, Ariadne had tried to picture just what kind of person Arthur's real father could have been. She had given up on any sort of tortured past for Arthur—she had met his family. But that didn't mean that she could give up on him having a good for nothing father or maybe a father who tragically died, leaving a young Ms. James destitute with a small child. Ariadne knew the ideas were over romanticized, but she couldn't help but feel that Arthur's past deserved a little more drama than a father and mother who just couldn't get along. Which, she decided, was dramatic enough. Just not the kind of war-novel-esque ending she was looking for.

"Well… I don't know exactly what to say about Arthur's real dad. Arthur doesn't know much more than I do, and if he hasn't shared anything with you, I don't know that he'll want _me_ sharing it with you." Mr. James looked slightly uncomfortable.

Ariadne was about to protest and say that it was only because she had never _asked_ Arthur about his father had she had never learned anything. But she figured that this would give her negitive brownie points—after all, it was kind of going around Arthur's back to ask his step-father about Arthur's father. So she made up her mind to ask Arthur that night.

* * *

"What are you looking at?"

Arthur's head had popped up over the edge of the top bunk and he was looking at her with a disconcerting look on his face. Noticing such a face in such close proximity made her uncomfortable, he smirked and scooted his face closer to her. Ariadne groaned, already halfway asleep—or in a sugar coma because of Mrs. James' banana pudding—she wasn't sure. With floppy hands, she reached out at random and attempted to push his face away. It was a scary face. And she wanted sleep. That's all she knew. But with her face nose deep into her down pillow, her depth perception wasn't at its most stellar, and so any attempts to push his face away just resulted in her hands making an excellent buffeting motion in the air.

"Arthur, you appear to be made of air," she said into her pillow, when her forth sweep of the air around her bed made no contact with his annoyingly close face.

From lower along the bed, she heard him laugh, and she realized with a sheepish smile that she had been beating at empty space. Arthur was super sneaky, she decided. Then she decided that her pillow smelled good and it was time for her to go to bed. With a contented sigh, she breathed in the smelly-smellyness of her pillow—

-and realized that she had just used the phrase "smelly-smellyness."

Yes, there was something wrong with her.

It had to be the banana pudding.

Sleep would not come—there had been far too many vanilla wafers in the banana pudding. And judging by the fact that Arthur's sleep pattern had become that of an Olympic gymnast going through his paces, Ariadne suspected that he, too, had had too many servings of banana pudding and its evil vanilla wafers.

"Is it your goal in life to torture me?" Ariadne asked, feeling herself starting to get sea sick when Arthur rolled over for the forty-second time. The rolling resulted in a sea-like swaying of the bed that was doing nothing for her now sugar-induced imagination.

"Well, it wasn't at first," he said as he rolled over—time number forty-three. "But now that you mention it, it doesn't sound like a bad occupation."

Ariadne refused to laugh. "Oh, haha. I suppose you think that it is funny to roll around and to creepily look at me while I am obviously suffering."

To prove a point, Arthur took trip number forty-four across his mattress.

"You devil." She said as she heard the southern dinner sloshing around in her stomach. She wasn't sure to whom she was talking—her achy stomach, her confused brain, or to the unfair man who was rolling around just to torture her. "You're all devils." She condensed them all into one.

"Well, I just wanted to check something," Arthur said by way of explanation.

Ariadne, who was still trying to figure out when her stomach had started hurting, was confused as to what he was talking about.

"What are you talking about?" She asked with the most eloquent language she possessed.

"I wanted to check something." Arthur said. Ariadne growled.

"You've already told me that. What in the world are you talking about?"

"That's why I was looking at you. I wanted to make sure that you were real."

Ariadne could hear the crickets outside.

"Of course I'm real…. Why wouldn't I be?" She poked herself to make sure she was real. She was.

"Well, we do work in a field that deals a lot with the unreal. I just had to make sure that you were real. You're so… unreal that I couldn't tell if you were real or not."

Ariadne stopped poking herself when she realized that Arthur was being sweet and not teasing her. She felt that continuing to poke herself would be slightly making light of a sweet moment in their new relationship.

"Well, I am real. And even if this was one giant dream, you wouldn't have to worry about what would happen when you woke up. Because I'd still like you the same way I do now."

"That, and I know this isn't a dream, so I don't have to worry about it." Arthur laughed.

"How do you know that this isn't a dream?" Ariadne asked, wiggling her eyebrows to the ceiling.

"Because no one in my imagination would go around poking themselves for no apparent reason."

From above, Ariadne wondered how in the world Arthur knew that she had been poking herself. Then she looked over and saw that the bathroom door was open. From inside, the mirror glinted. He had been using the mirror.

Arthur, the resourceful.

And suddenly, even through the haze of her banana pudding stupor, Ariadne remembered that she was on a mission.

"Arthur, can I ask you a question?"

"Only if I can ask you one too…"

That was invitation enough.

"Can you tell me about your real father?"

* * *

_Again, sorry for the late update._

_And can I say? This chapter was not written for the benefit of you, my readers._

_Yes, yes, this was a secondary motivation. But my primary motivation for writing the chapter you have just read is this: in the face of studying for Anatomy—or any class, but Anatomy especially—anything sounds more enticing. In the course of this Sunday, I have cleaned my room, spent innumerable hours on my favorite blog, paced up and down my hallway, deleted 1000 songs from my iTunes, arranged my clothes in shirt-type order, followed by color-order, taken a personality/job test, listened to my entire iPod from B to T, gone to church, talked to people I don't even like, pondered the oxford comma, and done more loads of laundry than I ever have done in my entire life._

_I am never more productive than when faced with the task of studying._

_And now that I reach the end of this chapter, I am faced with the problem that, after I put in another load of laundry, I will have nothing else to do but study._

_And tomorrow, on my test, I will be telling myself I was stupid for not studying sooner._

_But right now I'm thinking: Who cares about what basophiles do?_

_But now I'm also thinking: "Well shoot-dang. I have nothing else left to do…"_

_Sooo… FIFA 11 anyone? C;_

_(Oh, and _pee ess_: I tried to upload this yesterday. But unfortunately, fanfiction was having issues I could not overcome, even with my super super powers….)_


	12. The Unit

_And here I go, starting! Look at me and my awesomeness! (Because I wrote that, I'm probably not going to update on time… I sowwy….)_

_Anywho, here I go!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Twelve

_Wherein parental units are discussed in depth_

* * *

There was a sigh from the bunk below. Ariadne wanted to believe that she could imagine what face Arthur was making, but she really had no idea. He was still a bit of a mystery to her, and like most mysteries in real life, he was one that would probably be never solved satisfactorily. Stupid TV dramas made mysteries so much simpler than they actually were.

But his sigh sounded resigned, like he had known the question would come at some point. And so Ariadne pictured Arthur's face in its resigned expression. It was a face she was used to. He had given it to her many a time. Mostly when she had done something stupid—glued the glue bottle to the table, hailed a taxi when they didn't need one, etcetera—and he had just decided to go with her. Because he knew that there was no stopping Ariadne when she was on one of her klutzy kicks. Or random obsessions. He had faced her obsession with Asian music during the Fischer Job with a similar, resigned face.

"What do you want to know?" Arthur asked from below.

Ariadne, who was still rubbing her aching stomach, nearly leaped out of bed (and checked to see if he was alright) when he acquiesced to her request. She had thought it would have taken a bit more convincing to let her in on possibly his greatest secret.

"You gave in that easily?" Ariadne voiced her confusion.

"Ariadne, I trust you." His voice rumbled from below. "Why wouldn't I tell you."

"Because you're a super private person!" Ariadne was touched by Arthur's belief in her. And that he thought she was trustworthy.

"I wasn't always super private," Arthur explained. "There's just something about working with dreams and memories that makes me keep my facts close. I figure that since I can break into someone's head so easily, they could easily do the same to me. So I try to keep my secrets as deep down as I can."

It made sense, sadly, and Ariadne wondered why she too hadn't thought of that fact before. Granted, there was nothing in her life that she necessarily needed to hide. The fact that Arthur felt the need to hide things intrigued her. She wondered if he actually had things in need of hiding, or if he was just such a private person that the idea of anyone wandering around in his mind made him as uncomfortable as too-small shoes.

With a start that forced her half closed eyes, open, she realized that she had expressed her feelings—that her heart did go _pitter_-_patter_ when he was around—to a man she knew little about. And for the first time, she felt a little bit hopeless. He was such a brick wall, a giant barricade. There were so many stones that made up the wall that was Arthur. It would take her a million years to even scrape the surface of his escarpment. She could buffet and flail against his iron mind, and she might never learn anything about him. Not if he didn't want her to know. She looked (figuratively) up at the height and width of the idea that was _Arthur_.

_Well: 'Every journey begins with a single step_,' Ariadne thought to her-self, thanking China Best for its philosophical fortune cookies.

"Well, then. Tell me about this father of yours." Ariadne asked, figuring to take out one of the larger stones in Fortress Arthur.

Arthur was silent for a few seconds and a pain started in Ariadne's stomach that had nothing to do with the quantity of Banana Pudding and Nilla Wafers she had consumed. It was rather like two bison were trampling around her internal organs. Nervous bison, too, she decided. Nervous like they were the last two bison in America and there was a hunter with his sights set on one of them. It would only be a few seconds time to tell who would be the "Last Bison" and who would be "Formerly the Second to Last Bison." Ariadne felt this was a fitting summary of her feelings. It would only be a few seconds until she found out if she would really be "The First Person Arthur Trusted," or if she would forever remain "Formerly the First Person Arthur Trusted."

She was being ridiculous, she knew. He had already told her he would answer her question. But as he continued to think, Ariadne too began to think, and her brain got farther ahead of itself than it already was. Gone were her thoughts of Bison. She was onto thoughts of her wandering hopelessly through Virginia, possibly without shoes, because Arthur had tossed her out for asking too many questions and for invading in business that she really had no part in.

She was to the point where she was mentally calculating if it was possible for her to call her friend in Paris to tell him that he didn't need to feed her cat anymore without Arthur noticing, when Arthur began speaking.

"So, I don't know much about him, my father," Arthur began.

Ariadne, who hadn't been able to remember her friend's phone number, instantly stopped begrudging technology for creating a helpless vacuum of information in her brain. Arthur had begun to speak, and that alone was pull enough to drag her out of her brain void and back to reality.

"But there are a few things my Mother has told me." Arthur began to list them, and Ariadne could hear a rustle below her that made her feel like Arthur was counting the facts off on his fingers.

"My mother left him a bit after I was born. I've grown up with my Step-Father as my father figure."

Hearing Arthur say that Mr. James was his father figure made Ariadne feel warmness in her stomach and heart toward the man she had spent time with earlier in the day. He had seemed so insecure about his position with Arthur, and here was Arthur admitting it outright.

"Evidently he was a no good man. My mother picked him up after high school and they got married in a fit of whimsy."

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Ariadne waved her hands in a spastic manner. "Hold the phone and back it up. Your mother… fit of whimsy? Explain."

Arthur laughed a little bit. "Yeah, doesn't seem like her does it. She had her head screwed on so tight now it doesn't seem like she'd do anything without thinking it through. Maybe on backwards and my step father was the 180 she needed to get her head on right."

Ariadne took a moment to appreciate two things: one: Arthur's ability with extended metaphors and idioms. And two: his correctness in degree of change. A 360 would have meant that Mrs. James had come full circle, right back to where she had been before. A 180 degree change meant she had turned her back on the life she had been living and had turned completely around, completely opposite. And while it was all very literary, it also assuaged the left/math side of her brain as well. Arthur just had that comforting affect on her—when he wasn't driving her up the wall with worry and teenage-esque angst.

"While I try to picture your mother as anything other than her current overly-protective self, please continue to tell me about your father." Ariadne said as she clutched her head. Some things were not computing.

"It's all hard to say." Arthur explained. "I mean, as a kid I grew up knowing that _Levitt James_ wasn't my father. I didn't even have the same last name. So of course I made up all of these conjunctures about my real father. He became real in my brain as a perfect man. He had been forced to leave my mother. He was a firefighter and a cop and a cowboy and a super-hero. He could make pizza better than any pizza place and he could make it rain gumballs from the sky. If there was something I wanted for my birthday and I knew my parents wouldn't get it for me, I would write to my father and ask him to give it to me. I never was able to send the letters, but I believed that he and I had a connection and that somehow he would come and give me the toy I'd been wanting. I believed in that connection. I thought that maybe someday I would get to meet the man that I'd built up in my brain.

"My parents let this go on until I was eleven. Do you understand, Ariadne? Eleven. At eleven I was still under the impression that my real father was an angel. They let me believe this until I was eleven. It wasn't until I asked them when I could meet my real father that my mother sat me down with my Step-Father and told me all about my real father.

"I was crushed. I was told that my father was the robber that my hero-father would have had to catch. My father would have been the person to light the fire, not to put it out. He was the bandit and the bad guy. He liked jalapenos on his pizza and he liked throwing gumballs at unsuspecting passers-by. He was a good-for-nothing and it was unhealthy for me to build him up like that."

Ariadne was slightly shocked. "They were that rough with you? You'd think at eleven they'd soften the blow a little bit."

Arthur seemed to shake his head. "They didn't want me to build up false images for a man who would in the end let me down. He really was a good for nothing. They told me that I had so much more potential and that I should look up to other people for an example. I needed concrete role-models, not figments of my imagination or people that would eventually let me down in the worst way."

The end of his sentence was punctuated with a moment of silence that lapsed into a long period of thinking for the both of them.

A good-for-nothing father. She had wanted as much for her Arthur-drama she had concocted in her head. But now that he actually did possess one, it was sadder than she thought it would be. It was obvious now that he still felt let-down with a bummer for a father and she wondered what she would have done at eleven if her parents had told her that Ernie, her imaginary friend, wasn't real. (They had let her figure that one out on her own.)

But it was obvious that Arthur was still looking for that strong male role-model. He had said earlier that Mr. James had been a father-figure. But Mr. James wouldn't even adopt Arthur, which left Arthur out to sea in his own turbulent thoughts.

"I've seen him before, Ariadne," Arthur stated. "My father."

Ariadne was startled, to put it kindly. "Excuse me?"

"My mother told me his name a few years ago and I looked him up online a few years back."

"And…"

"All there was were mug-shots." Arthur said in the least feeling voice he could muster.

And as Ariadne's shocked meter rose, her ability to form coherent sentences plummeted. "Bwa?" was the only thing she could wrestle from her shocked vocal cords.

"I know, right. I guess my mother was right—he was good for nothing. Evidently he's dabbled in every sort of illegal practice known to mankind. He comes from the rough stock of 'New York's finest,' evidently."

Ariadne was about to say something about figuring out how he had become a Yankees fan, but her frazzled brain was at least able to pick out that this was not the time or place to bring that up.

"I can see why my mother didn't want him around, you know. Doesn't want me involved in anything illegal." Arthur laughed at the irony.

Ariadne considered Arthur's current employment and had to laugh a bit as well. It really was too ironic. "I guess you're more like your father than your mother would have hoped. Can't breed that out."

Arthur sobered. "That's the thing, Ariadne. That's the only thing we have in common. As I was looking at his multiple mug-shots splayed across my screen, I was looking for similarities. He may be a loser and a bad influence, but still. This was the man who gave me half of my DNA. He was the man who—in an alternate reality—I would have learned to ride a bike from, or who would have taught me to tie my shoes.

"But I couldn't find anything similar, aside from our illegal escapades. We both have black hair, but that was about all I could find. There was literally nothing to connect me to this man—this literal half of me."

"Well, mug shots aren't taken after full hair and make-up, you know," Ariadne comforted in the best way she could. "Maybe there were more similarities you could have seen if you had met him in person."

Arthur seemed to consider her proposition. "Maybe," he said, but he didn't sound convinced.

They lapsed back into silence that stretched Ariadne's eyelids back over her eyes.

Before she feel into the sleep that was more than likely induced by a sugar coma and by an actual want of sleep, she managed to squeeze out one last question.

"Do you still want to meet him, Arthur? Because you probably could now that you're an adult."

Ariadne almost didn't hear Arthur's mumbled response. "Now that I'm an adult, I've given up on that particular dream as something that wouldn't be best for me to pursue."

"A dream isn't something to give up on." Ariadne said in a fit of sleep-addled wisdom. "Dreams are something to be fulfilled."

"Well, you've kind of already fulfilled all of the dreams I deemed worth my time."

Ariadne decided pretending to be asleep would be the easiest way to cover up the blush that was rising in her cheeks. Because if she spoke, the blush was sure to find some way to come into her voice and scream out: I am Ariadne's blush and I am on full blast.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was a pleasant affair. And by "pleasant," Ariadne meant that it would have been more comfortable for her to stab her eyes out with staples than to sit there for any longer and watch Rachel oscillate between flirting with Ariadne's "Fiancé" and sending dark looks down at her brother and Ariadne, who was sitting beside him.

Arthur had also seemed not to learn the idea of "where my placemat begins is where my personal space also begins" and was leaning dangerously close to her Orange Juice. Ariadne had the nagging suspicion that Arthur was doing this on purpose because she had told her it bugged her when people invaded her space or were close talkers. She had been tempted to draw a line down the table to delineate where her space began and where his ended. But he had never been one to follow any sort of rules. And a pencil line would have served as a marker to measure just how far he could get across the dividing line without the family noticing his dangerous lean.

One thing was going right though. Thankfully, Eames had listened to some part of Ariadne's ranting the day before, and kept looking down the table toward where Ariadne and Arthur were sitting. He answered Rachel when she spoke, but a flick of his eyes toward Ariadne and then toward the door spoke volumes about what he was actually thinking.

_Meet me outside_, his eyes said.

Ariadne excused herself from the table, and after insisting to Mrs. James that she didn't need another helping of her waffles, continued to excuse herself to the garage to "work on her model."

En route to the garage, she reminded herself just why it was that she hated waffles. This thought managed to possess her thoughts all the way to the garage. In fact the idea of waffles and their grossness so consumed her thoughts that when she got into the garage, she wasn't even able to sit, so great was her distress. Whoever had come up with the idea of waffles—and pancakes for that matter—had obviously not been in his or her right frame of mind. No normal person would ever think to come up with something so… unappealing as waffles without some ulterior motive.

Arthur and Eames, who had somehow managed to excuse themselves from the table without detriment to their persons, entered the garage when her internal rant had reached the point where she was beginning to wonder who had thought it wise to tap into trees and drink the clear stuff that came out of them. She was to the point of deciding that it wasn't actually waffles that she hated, but syrup that was disgusting when Eames interrupted.

"We need to get this plan moving. As in, we need to get this done tomorrow." Eames came flat out.

"Excuse me?" Arthur and Ariadne exclaimed at the same time.

Eames rolled his eyes as the two gave each other confused looks when they heard each other speak at the same time.

"Like I said: We need to complete this job, and fast."

"Why?" Ariadne asked, always inquisitive.

"Rachel's getting more and more suspicious—" He began, but Ariadne cut him off.

"We already knew that Eames. Or did that fact get lost in that massive skull of yours." She reached forward to rap him on the skull, but he dodged her. He was not smiling, and for a second, Ariadne could have sworn her blood felt a little bit colder.

"Stop it. I mean it. She's getting way too suspicious. She says it's weird for you to come home Arthur. And the fact that you're bringing friends is even weirder. I've managed to play the part of innocent party member, but she's too smart not to realize something is up."

"So we play it a bit more carefully," Ariadne spoke, rolling her eyes. "You could to a bit better on that too, Eames. If we want to create an allusion of being engaged, we need…" She petered off as she realized that Arthur and Eames were exchanging significant looks.

"What did you find Eames?" Arthur asked.

"She has a PASIV in her car. And I'm pretty sure she plans to use it to figure what we're up to."

* * *

_Sorry Y'all! I had such high hopes of updating on time! It's my spring break and my plan was to finish this last Saturday and post it on Sunday. Then I would write the next chapter all of this week…_

_BUT… I don't know if you heard about the tornados going around… but yeah. One went right up my street. A TORNADO! And so I was without power for days. I wrote this on my laptop, which was runnnig off of a battery… which promptly died before I was able to complete this chapter._

_So yes… This is what you get. I'm sorry again for the lateness of my update._

_(Oh, and I'm going up to Virginia [I'll be thinking of Arthur, nbd] this weekend. So that's why you're getting this chapter on Friday, 12:00AM. And why this is **COMPLETELY UNEDITED**!) (Did I make that clear enough? I just want to make sure that you know that this is **COMPLETELY UNEDITED**. I don't want you to think I didn't see all of the typos. I didn't even go back and look. I do in fact make this many typos—I'm guessing there are typos galore—while writing. So you can appreciate more fully just how well I go back and catch all of my stupid mistakes. C: If there are any outstanding typos, please let me know in and I'll fix them when I get back!)_


	13. Multiple Devils

_Prom was last weekend. And I've been sick since three days before that. I worked 13 hours yesterday. I just thought I'd keep you up to date on my life thus far. C;_

_Thank you to all my reviewers last week! This week is the (possibly second to) last chapter before the actual Job! Excitement_!

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Thirteen

_Wherein Ariadne argues with the devil_

* * *

When Ariadne woke the next morning, there were two things running through her brain:

A: Rachel was not hanging over her with a dripping PASIV needle and a haunting look upon her haughy face.

And

B: Arthur was still asleep.

As this rarely happened, two more feelings coursed through Ariadne's little body to the forefront of her brain. Success on her own part for waking up before Arthur. (Although, granted, this was more a fault of Arthur's than a success on her part.) Her second feeling was that she should be as quiet as possible, so as not to wake the dear man below her. He needed his sleep.

That, and she felt the urge to kook at Arthur's sleeping face. Creepy as she felt, planning to look at sleeping Arthur, as she climbed down the metal ladder, she still did not feel shamed enough not to plan to sneak a peek.

After all, she reasoned. The two of them had admitted their feelings to one another. She had all right to be creepy and look at his face.

Before she had dropped sufficnently down on the ladder to look at Arthur, she stopped up short. From somewhere in her brain, an evil little voice began whispering devilish thoughts.

Yes, they had admitted their feelings. And what had come of it? Nothing.

_No_, Ariadne argued with herself. _He and I have had many, many deep conversations._

_Yes_, said the devil in her brain. _But these were things he would have told you even without this "relationship" you've dreamt up._

_That's not nice to pull the "dream" card,_ Ariadne thought_. It isn't tasteful, considering my line of work. But thanks for the half-compliment, by the way._

_Maybe he sees you as just a really good friend? _The voice went on, unfazed, as if Ariadne wasn't even there.

_Uh huh… and then why did we admit our FEELINGS? _Ariadne pushed again.

_And again, I say: what has come of this? Nothing that wouldn't have happened without this relationship._

_You just keep complimenting me by saying we're really good friends. _Ariadne muttered.

_But are you anything besides that? He just said he liked you because he didn't need to figure you out. Is that what a girl wants to know?_

_He said the LIKE-LIKED me! _Ariadne told the devil firmly.

_Ah… And who could resist the charms of a fourth grader and her eloquence?_ It was sarcasm… She hated sarcasm.

_Arthur could._

_He's a Yankees fan._

_Be gone devil!_

"How long are you going to hang off the ladder like that?"

In the occurance of Arthur's sudden speech, Ariadne's fingers suddenly long all ability to bend and grip. With a crash that threatened to wake even Eames, Ariadne toppled on her butt at the foot of Arthur's bunk bed. She was thankful that she had picked up her hairdryer the day before. But the amused look on Arthur's face made her wish that it was back at the foot of the bed; at least the pain would have distracted her from the acute embarrassment that she was feeling at that very moment.

Arthur didn't wait for her to answer the question—she had answered that very resoundingly. He swung himself out of bed. He was, thankfully, sporting a shirt, along with his plaid pyjama pants and Ariadne's already read face thanked him for it. Had he been shirtless, her brain would have become less slush and more of an evaporating puddle. That is to say, that her brain would have been even less of a brain than it already was.

"We'll be getting out of here today," Arthur said as he peeked through the denim curtains. Ariadne caught a glimpse of the world outside and spotted a ceiling of clouds so heavy that it looked like they were stuck right where they were. If it didn't rain, the world would probably run out of sunlight, Ariadne decided.

Aariadne, who had picked herself up while she looked at the clouds, froze at his words. She paused with her toothbrush in her mouth and her toothpaste tube tucked under her chin.

"Bwa?" Was all she could get out past the barrier of her toothbrush.

"We're going to be taking the earliest plane to wherever." He said, and dropped the curtains. Absentmindedly, Ariadne applauded the denim's ability to block out all sunlight. But she also noticed that the complete and utter lack of sunlight placed an ominous tone upon Arthur's words that would have never been there had there been sunlight present. But maybe she was over reacting.

"Hold up," She said, letting both her toothbrush and paste clatter to the carpet. "What about the _mission_?"

She had said mission rather loudly, and if Arthur had been an anxious person, he would have shushed her. But he continued on to avoid any suspicion. Plus, the entire house was asleep anyway, and Mr. James had already left for work.

"The mission is still on. This will just speed things up. Trust me."

Ariadne wanted to believe him. But leaving seemed counterproductive to the whole "Find out Mr. James's biggest secret and sell it to the US government in a largely illegal deal" idea.

"I can see you don't believe me," Arthur laughed and Ariadne scowled. Sometimes the whole supernatural ability of Arthur to read her mind, facial expressions, whatever, got irritating. There was no way to keep a secret with him. Then again, why would she want to?

"Okay the, Sir Arthur. Please explain to me how leaving will bring us to finishing the job."

It seemed that Arthur had no such qualms about keeping secrets.

"Oh, Ariadne dearest. You will see soon."

* * *

Ms. James nearly exploded when Arthur told her that she was leaving later that night. There was much spluttering and calls of injustice. And, Ariadne was certain, if it had been biblical times, Ariadne guessed that there would have been wailing and gnashing of teeth. In between "Arthur dear, gone so soon!" and "Ah! Dinner with your father!" Arthur shot Ariadne a look that told her he was successful.

Ariadne still wondered how in the world this was going to work.

While Ariadne was roped into preparing breakfast, Arthur went in to "wake Eames."

From the glinting, calculating look in Eames's eyes when he emerged through the café style door, Arthur must have filled him on the plan.

And in more depth than Arthur had Ariadne, Ariadne was forced to conclude, as she watched Eames steal the bread knife away from Ms. James and began slicing pieces for toast. Something was afoot. It seemed an innocent enough gesture, but anyone who knew Eames well enough would have been suspicious. Those who said chivalry wasn't dead had obviously never met Eames.

The looks that Eames and Arthur shared forced Ariadne to frown, despite the lovely smell of gravy simmering on the stove in front of her. The two men were never so friendly, unless they were picking on a mutual person. And Ariadne realized that that someone they were picking on was her.

As she gave the innocent gravy a particularly rough stir, Ariadne cursed the chivalry that was dead in both men.

Breakfast that morning was a sullen affair, even without Yusuf there to send Rachel into a glaring fury. It seemed that Ms. James had moved from denial to acceptance in the time it took for bacon to brown, and was now mulling over the fact that her baby boy was leaving.

"Rachel, dearie," Eames spoke up in the middle of buttering his toast—directly from the cube, Ariadne noticed. This did nothing to endear her to the tricky man any further.

Rachel's head perked up from the liberal gravy application to her biscuits. "Yes Eames-y baby?"

Ariadne nearly croaked on her own biscuit. But Eames seemed to enjoy the pet name.

"Now that's the way a man should be spoken to! Maybe my fiancé should spend a bit of time with you!"

_On your life_, Ariadne thought. _Oh, wait. We might want to risk something a little bit more valuable._

Rachel guffawed in a way that allowed all at the table to realize that there was something of an inside joke along with their pet names.

"Anyway, I was thinking that you and I might want to go out and relook at those—" But Ariadne cut in.

"Dear!" She interjected, tasting just how wrong the affectionate sounded coming out of her mouth. "I hate to break up the party, but you do remember that we are leaving today, right?"

If Ariadne hadn't known that Eames knew that they were leaving, she would have been convinced that Eames had not known. She would have been impressed by his show of theatrics in a more naïve part of her life. But this particular (fake) display of surprise did nothing but irritate her further.

"But Ari, we never even looked at houses."

Mentally Ariadne flinched. Both because of the pet name, and because he was right. Their entire rouse was that they were thinking of moving out here. And they hadn't looked at a single house.

"Never fear, dearies," Ms. James cut in. Ariadne feared that the word "dear" was going to turn into a word like "um" or "like" at the rate it was being spoken. "Y'all are welcome to come back at any point to look at houses. I've loved having my family back under our roof. As members of the James family, you are welcome here at any time."

There was something in the way that she said it that made Ariadne feel that she meant well by the offer. But it also reminded her that there was a person at the table who was not really a member of the James family, as much as he wanted to be.

Arthur spoke up. "Ariadne. I saw your tickets on the dresser."

Though no tickets existed the night before, Ariadne was sure that if she went upstairs that very moment, she would find tickets on her dresser.

"Your flight to Boston doesn't leave until late tonight. If Eames and Rachel wanted to, they could go an come back in time for dinner."

"Of course, dear, you'd have to pack for me." Eames jumped in, seizing whatever opportunity he could. And there was that word again. And the sad, imploring face that made Ariadne want to pack for Eames, despite him being a wicked, wicked man.

Ariadne sighed. "Fine. I'll pack for you…" There was a flicker of success on Eames's face, which disappeared when a devious looked appeared on Ariadne's.

"I'll pack…if I get the window seat. I'm going to need to sleep on the plane. I would usually sleep on your shoulder, _dear_, but as of late, you're starting to develop a particular odor. It's rather perplexing."

It wasn't often that Ariadne one upped Eames. It was even more rare to double up him.

* * *

From the privacy of their bedroom (Ariadne giggled girlishly when she thought of the room like that) Arthur and Ariadne packed quickly. Arthur seemed to be anxious to leave his house, now that he was finally on his way out. Ariadne found this curious. It wasn't as if he had had a terrible childhood here. But, Ariadne realized, coming back to a place where he had never fit in one hundred percent was a bit unnerving. Especially with a mother like Ms. James. Totally loving and yet suspicious. And yet, nothing she did was suspicious, neither her sayings. And yet, suspicious all the same. It made Ariadne's brain want to be not a brain and melt into a puddle on the ground.

Arthur told her to enjoy the rest of her day in whatever manner she chose. Letting the plan fall fully into Arthur's capable hands, she planned on delegating the rest of her day working on the model outside. However, she realized that the clouds had formed a ceiling on the bluebird sky and desired to be on the ground in the form or a torrential downpour. Ariadne decided that the trek out to the garage wasn't worth the hike. After all the only dry clothing she had was on her person. (She had left her packed suitcase out on the wraparound porch and everything inside of it was now soaked.) That, she rationalized, and the model wasn't needed anymore. They were working tonight. She would never finish it in time anyway.

And so she snagged her laptop and her hairdryer and settled down to make Arthur's CD she had promised him so long ago. And to blow dry the pages of some books that had been in her suitcase.

Working her laptop with one hand wasn't easy, but the CD came along nicely. Page thirty-seven of her copy of _Huckleberry Finn _got a bit crispy as she pondered over her music choices and forgot she was drying, but aside from that, everything was peachy.

She burned the disk and plotted a way to sneak it into Arthur's bag without him noticing. As she plotted, she heard Arthur and Ms. James in the kitchen. Though the living room and the kitchen were connected, with only an open dining room in the middle, the couches were positioned so that it was easy for people to forget that there were people in the other rooms.

"Is there anything you need me to do before I leave?" Arthur asked his mother. "Do you need me to run to the store to pick up any food for dinner?"

"Store: no," Ms. James's words were punctuated with hammer beats as she tenderized the meat for dinner. "But if you wanted to run up to DC and pick up your father, that would be most welcome. He won't be home in time if he comes home at his normal time."

"Couldn't he just catch the Metro back to his car like he usually does?" Arthur asked, not in a complaining voice, but in a voice that spoke of wasted gas money and a depleting ozone layer.

"He could, normally," Ms. James said firmly. "But I dropped him off at the station this morning. With so many people here, we didn't know who would need the cars."

That explained why it had been so quiet that morning. Ms. James had been absent. Ariadne had thought it strange that she had woken up before Ms. James. As it turned out, she hadn't.

"…fine…" Arthur said shortly. There was a screech of a stool being pulled out and a "pardon me, mother. I've got an email," before a clattering of blackberry keys.

Ariadne was pondering just who Arthur could be emailing and just who in the world spoke to their mother so formally, when a bubble popped up on her computer screen.

_*One new email.*_

Curiously, and now pondering coincidence, Ariadne pulled open her email. It was an unknown sender.

"_Hey. Yeah, I know your email. But what kind of information gather would I be if I didn't know your Email_."

_What kind indeed_, Ariadne thought. There was no name, but Ariadne knew who had sent the email instantly. She was also grateful that she didn't have the embarrassing email she had sported in the sixth grade.

"_Anyway, my plan is a success. You and I will be leaving to pick up my father in twenty minutes. Eames will distract Rachel and that meat will keep my mother company. I have the PASIV in my suitcase._

"_And so, Ariadne, I cordially invite you on our second date:_

_Would you be willing to attack my step-father's brain with me?"_

Ariadne hid a smile as she sent a three letter response to Arthur's email.

"_Yes_."

She also hid a smile as she sent a three word message to herself.

"_Take that, Devil!_"

* * *

_I wrote this entire thing at work on tiny paper, so I have no idea of it's actually length… Hopefully it is a pleasing length otherwise—too bad! C; (Say that like a sheep… or a goat.)_

_A few more notes:_

_One: I have no idea how the metro works. I just know that it's a bad idea to try to ride it during the cherry blossom festival._

_Two: I was going to put the CD list in this chapter, but it didn't happen. Would y'all like me to work the CD in, or would you like it to remain a mystery as to why Ariadne likes? (And since I am the writer, what I think Ariadne would like?)_

_And Three: There are some inconstancies that I have noticed in this story that bug me. But unless you've noticed them, they won't bug you. So I won't point them out. I just wanted you to let you know that I know they're there. If they see them too (First off, congratulations for being as anal retentive as I am…) don't worry. I'm as bugged as you are!_

_You know, one day I'll get back to posting all the names down here. But it's 11:06 and I have a desire to sleep. So this is going up completely un-beta-ed. And Again, I'm sorry for that. If you see anything terribly wrong, let me know and I'll fix it._

_But until then, review to me wonderful reviews of love! Or of hate, if that's how you really feel!_

_Please, review!_


	14. Trinkets

_Hullo all! Here I am starting._

_I'm sorry for the late update…. But when I tell you_

_TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY!_

_I hope you'll forgive me._

_That's right. I'm 18. The big one eight. I think I'm going to go buy something off of an infomercial really quick…_

_Quick FYI: This is completely unspellchecked. Not even by Microsoft word. I just wanted to get this up ASAP. And it is almost 12:00. On a school night. And I don't do well without sleep…_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter 14

_Wherein Ariadne pointedly ignores the Yankees trinket hanging from Arthur's rear view mirror_

* * *

Before Ariadne and Arthur left to pick up Mr. James, Yusuf was called, and a large deal was made out of him coming to visit.

After all, Arthur told his mother when he had hung up the phone: It wasn't often that he got to see the man. Living in Africa was not conducive to house calls, nor to lunch dates or to man-TV-watching sessions. Ms. James said that it wasn't likely that her son did any of these things, considering he was still wearing a tie and he was about to do pick up his father. When she mentioned that she still had some of his old t-shirts up in the attic, Arthur made a very large fuss about the fact that he had just heard the doorbell.

But Mickey wasn't barking. And Mickey was a notorious barker, if Ariadne recalled the squirrel that had been on the porch a few mornings ago. But Ms. James didn't seem to notice the absence of her dog's barking (perhaps she was desensitized to it?) and went on with her dinner preperations. For a woman who spent so much time cooking and eating and preparing food, she was unnaturally thin. That had to be where Arthur got his thinness from, Ariadne decided. Because while Mr. James was a fit man, he was in no wise skinny.

Then Ariadne realized it didn't matter what Mr. James looked like. Arthur wasn't a James, no matter how much he wanted to be one.

* * *

With Rachel removed from the house for the time being, the departure hugs were sweet and not mixed with looks of hatred brimming forth from two sets of eyes. Arthur made a great show of hugging Yusuf, and when Ariadne realized that this might well be the last time she would see the man, she gave him a hug that was double her pint-size. While she was the man she had interacted with the least, there was a bond there that only came with risking your life and livelihood to break the law… legally.

Ariadne felt a weight drop into her pocket at Yusuf's last hug. She was smart enough not to mention it.

* * *

The car ride was a wonderful one—except for the fact that Ariadne realized she was wearing the largest, baggiest sweatshirt she owned. And on her second date with Arthur too. He looked so crisp in his business attire and matching tie, and she looked like she had rolled down a hill and then had proceeded to iron only half of one sleeve of her sweatshirt. But, she figured, who ironed sweatshirts anyway.

She had since given up any idea of slipping Arthur's burned disk into his suitcase, and instead slipped it out of her sweat shirt pocket and into Arthur's disk player. She picked the time when he was ragging on her sense of music taste. Rather than bring up the fact that she had thrown away more than one N'Sync CD, she played for Arthur the disk that had taken her so much sweat to make. And that had ended up in the frying of her beloved copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Arthur told her that he had been slightly off about her taste in music. Arthur told her that new music wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. Arthur told her that the CD was okay.

Okay, he said. If okay meant that repeating a song about Zombies four times, Ariadne wanted things to be "okay" more often. She wanted to memorize his facial expressions. Especially when he first heard the song that she had lovingly called "The Monkey Song" for the entirety of her owning it. It was a song that she had struggled to find because she didn't actually know the name of the song, having given it it's fake name on day one, but the look he gave her was worth the struggle it had been.

Soon the music, which had once been a focal point of their discussions, faded into the background and they fell back into normal-people discussions. As normal as discussions could get for two Dream-hackers. Ariadne focused mostly on Arthurs face—he was able to read her so well, and she wanted to be able to understand this man. Sometimes she forgot what the topic was as she watched and he had to prod her into talking again, but she found herself enjoying his company more and more. She had known him before: but now she knew him well. And that made the little school girl inside her give a little leap of victory.

She was grateful that Arthur didn't know that her stomach was acting as her personal cheerleader.

And if he ever asked her why she was looking so determinatly at his face, she could always say she was avoiding looking at the Yankee Filth hanging from his rear view mirror.

So stare on she did.

* * *

Of all the unlikely places to find herself, Ariadne found herself squished around a picnic table outside of the nicest Cookout she had ever seen. Well, to say squished would be a slight hyperbole, but since there was a very loud family—from West Virginia, according to their plates—sharing their table, Ariadne felt squished indeed. But after she had gotten over her acute Claustrophobia, she was able to recognize the real humor in the situation.

She was sitting in a Cookout parking lot. Surrounded by a family from West Virginia. And she was sitting between two men in suits, who were eating their deep fried corn dogs with a seriousness that a surgeon would display during a neurosurgery. The way Arthur was contemplating his corndog made Ariadne think that he wanted to dissect it with his eyes.

The thought did not actually make Ariadne want to learn how to cut food with her eyeballs. That would be preposterous.

The two men didn't talk. They hadn't talked since Mr. James had gotten in the car, and Ariadne wished that she was sitting up front so that she could turn down the music and just listen to their silence. It was a wonderful thing, their silence.

If Ariadne had to personify or describe it in anyway, it would be like this. Each had a plastic cup embedded in their ear, and there was a string running between the two of them. It was old fashioned and uncomplicated. They seemed able to speak without even looking. It was like just riding in the car was enough. There were no sentimental looks: both men looked right ahead. There was no attempt at small talk—it wasn't needed. Even Ariadne, who usually suffered in silence, didn't feel the need to chatter. Nothing was needed to fill the silence.

Sitting at lunch was no different. While the family next-door chattered about a graduation and a birth of a litter of puppies, the three sat in their companionable silence and considered the importance of Corn Dogs in the regular person's diet. Or at least Ariadne did.

_It's a hot dog. And it's covered in corn bread. And it's on a stick. What could be more convenient. They should make Piggies-in-a-blanket on a stick. Though I think that whoever makes corndogs would be mad for stealing their business. Or the Corn Dog people would just run the Piggie people out of business. Because no one I know would pass up a Corn Dog for a Piggie-in-a-blanket—_

"Ariadne, do you want me to take your jacket to the car? It's on the way to the trash can." Arthur asked suddenly, wrapping his corndog stick in the tin foil his Cookout Burger had come in.

The segue into conversation was startling and unexpected and for a second Ariadne wondered if the top of her mouth would be permanently damaged from the puncture wound she had just inflicted upon herself with the "handy" corndog stick. Maybe sticks in food weren't such a hot idea.

" Urm, sure," Ariadne said, thinking that everything Arthur did had a point. So she allowed for Arthur to take her sweatshirt to the car without a problem. With Arthur gone, the silence turned a bit awkward and seeing as how Arthur had introduced the idea of conversation, there was no way Ariadne could let the air fall back into that silence.

"He's a wonderful kid, you know," ARiadne said softly, pointing back to Arthur with her thumb. "You did a good job raising him."

Mr. James nodded solemnly. "It's my only wish that he turn out as well as he did. He's a father's dream."

"Why don't you just adopt him, Mr. James?" Ariadne spurt out as suddenly as a soft drink dispenser. "That's all he really wants."

Mr. James sighed, and shook his head. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Ariadne dear."

"I just wish I understood. It's obvious that you treat him like a son. And he treats you as a father. I don't think there's anything he wants more than to be your legal son. And that's a strange aspiration for a man so young." Ariadne told him.

"And those are deep observations, from a person so young." Mr. James said, as he fiddled with his tie.

It was then that Ariadne realized she had never seen Mr. James with anything but a suit on.

It was then that Ariande realized just why Arthur might wear suits all of the time.

"We should probably get going," Arthur said, coming back without Ariadne's sweatshirt. "Once you're finished of course. Mother will want to be feeding us soon, and my flight leaves a bit before Ariadne and Eames's flight."

"You could have saved the trip to the car," Ariadne muttered, taking a sip of her cheerwine and deciding that she liked the drink a bit more than was healthy.

"Eh, I needed to check the time anyway," Arthur said, grinning. "I'm a schedule oriented person."

"You could have checked your phone," Ariadne offered sagely.

"The James family doesn't allow phones at the table," Mr. James proffered as he inspected the bottom of his milkshake cup for floating pieces of peanut butter cup.

"After all," Arthur said, rising once again from the table and gathering all of the drink cups.

"The entire James family is full schedule oriented people." Arthur carried on Mr. James' thought, and Ariadne got the idea this was a regularly repeated mantra at the James household.

"And we all need a little peace at the table to enjoy a meal together." Mr. James finished. It appeared that there was nothing of interest at the bottom of his drink, for he stuffed all of his trash into the cup and rose from his seat to throw it away.

"I'm going to go top us off, " Arthur told them, raising the foam cups and rattling them to show the giant Ice-to-water ratio.

"Good idea, Arthur," Mr. James said, taking up Ariadne's trash as well. Instantly, Ariadne felt even more attached to this good-Samaritan family and wished that her current fiancé was a bit more like them. Then she realized that she didn't have to worry about that: Eames wasn't actually her fiancé.

"Did you and my son have a thing going on a while back?" Mr. James asked as they walked back to the car.

That caught Ariadne a bit off guard, and she was glad that there had been an awkwardly placed rock for her to blame on her stumble. By the time she had removed herself from the pavement, she had restored her red face to its normal coloring and was able to answer Mr. James truthfully.

"Err… No, not exactly." She said, thinking of their quick kiss before Cobb/Mr. Charles had gone crazy.

"Not exactly?" Mr. James asked, a half smile twisting its way onto his face. "But there might have been a little something there."

"Maybe something tiny. Like the size of a super small dust bunny chopped in half, and then burned and the ash was blown away. That tiny. And completely one sided." Though, as she said it, Ariadne realized that it hadn't been one sided, like she had thought all along. Arthur had had some feelings toward her at the time.

"One sided you say?" Mr. James chuckled. "I guess that explains why Arthur doesn't seem to be that enchanted with your current Fiance. He tries really hard to like him, I can tell. But I've noticed that Arthur doesn't actually like Eames that much. I guess feelings between you two are still one sided."

His smile was so sweet that Ariadne almost felt the urge to correct him. That feelings were not ones sided, and it had never been Arthur on that one side. It had been her. Or maybe it hadn't been.

But Arthur showed up with three sloshing glasses of water before Ariadne could ruin everything in one fell sentence.

"I got us all water," he explained, when he saw Ariadne eyeing the obviously-not-browness of her cup's contents. He directed his next sentence at Mr. James. "Mother says you need to watch your sugar intake, and soda dehydrates you anyway."

Mr. James rolled his eyes—a very unexpected and less mature response than Ariadne would have expected from him. "If you take care of my son as well as he takes care of others, he'll be well set."

Mr. James pulled open his car door and slid into the seat. Arthur gave Ariadne a confused eyebrow quirk before he too maneuvered himself and three glasses of water into the front seat.

Ariadne buckled her seatbelt before she started paying attention to the conversation going on in the front.

"You really should call your mom, 'mom' you know. The way you act around her is so formal that it is almost biting." Mr. James was saying.

"I don't do it from any malicious intent," Arthur said, handing Mr. James a cup of water and handing Ariadne her own. "I just have always called her that. I think it gives her the respect she deserves. And I don't see you complaining about me calling you 'father.'" Arthur teased.

"I happen to like the sound of you calling me 'father.'" Mr. James said after taking a sip of his water.

Another silence fell on the car, and Ariande nearly fell asleep, so deep was the silence. It was like a giant swimming pool. She could have drowned in it. But instead she was floating.

When Arthur pulled off to the side of the road, Ariadne knew that something was about to happen.

"He's good and out," Arthur told her when he had parked far enough from the road not to arouse help, but close enough not to attract attention.

Ariadne was startled, but this time her seatbelt kept her from jerking about too much.

"What?" Was her response to his odd statement.

"I drugged him. He should be out for long enough for us to get the information that we need." Arthur explained. When Ariadne persisted in looking confused, Arthur backtracked. "Yusuf dropped some anesthesia in your coat pocket when he came here. I can't exactly go sticking my father when he's awake."

Ariadne saw the purpose in his plan, but she berated herself for not realizing that she had had a drugging concoction in her coat pocket. You think she would have noticed that sort of thing.

They worked quickly to get Mr. James into position for a comfortable Dream Dive. A needle was inserted into his wrist. He had large, healthy veins, so the process was a quick one. When his chair was reclined and he was completely ready, except for the press of the spongy button, Ariadne turned to Arthur, needle poised to plunge it into the back of his hand.

But he shook his head.

"I can't go in there," Arthur told her, taking the needle from her hand.

Ariadne was the most confused she had been the entire day. "Why?"

"He won't tell me his deepest secret. He'll keep it more hidden from me than he will from anyone else." Arthur explained, his voice shaking a little bit. Ariadne was a bit concerned for Arthur, but she continued to listen.

"Basically, no family member could go into his brain," Arthur explained more fully. "If there's a secret he wants to keep, he'd want a stranger to know before his family did. So, it has to be you. I wouldn't make you go if it wasn't completely safe and completely necessary."

Ariadne shrugged. "I don't feel like I'm allowed to do this," she explained, trying to take the needle back from Arthur.

"So imagine how it would be for me, Ariadne. To you, you can pretend he's a complete stranger. I can't do that. There's more of a moral problem for me than there is for you," his voice continued to shake, but his hands remained steadily around the needle. "Plus, you're the only one who knows the layout you've planned. I didn't have time to study it."

Ariadne was forced to concede. She allowed Arthur to plug her into the machine.

As she was pulled under the wave of medications and the euphoria that came with the machine being turned on, she felt Arthur press a kiss to her forehead and she heard a muttered, "Thank you."

And then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

_Since I didn't actually include the soundtrack in this story, I thought I'd include it here. I didn't want the story to be bogged down by pop culture references, so I am presenting it to you here. C:_

_Ah Hem: Ariadne's/My CD of awesomeness: A compilation of songs that might be Ariadne's favorites, or they might be mine. Actually, why do we even need a delination? So, to rename:_

_Ariadne and Sock's favorite songs_

Dress and Tie_—Charlene Kaye [feat. Darren Criss]_

Oxford Comma_—Vampire Weekend_

We Intertwined_—The Hush Sound_

Wasted_—Cartel_

You're Gonna Go Far Kid_—The Offspring_

Around My Head_—Cage the Elephant_

Sun in My Pocket_—Locnville_

Rules Don't Stop_—We are Scientists_

Rollerblades_—Eliza Doolittle_

Hold me_—Jamie Grace [feat. tobyMac]_

Braille_—Regina Spektor_

My Body_—Young the Giant_

Zombies Ate My Neighbors_—Single File_

Sorry Sorry_—Super Junior_

El Sonidito___—__Hechizeros Band_

_Wow… I am realizing now how many of these songs I got for free on iTunes…_

_For the record: (baha, punny…) when I created this CD, I was literally just thinking of the first songs that came to my brain. For all of those who sent me options a ways back in chapter something: I thank you. Please don't think that because I didn't include a song from one of the bands that you told me about that I hate you or the band. I literally just wanted to get this chapter out and the CD was more of a side note. I did actually go through and listen to a song from. Every. Single. Band. that y'all pointed out to me. And believe me: as good of reviewers as you are, that was a monumental task to complete!_

_Oh, and also: I know Cookout only exists in North Carolina. But I desire Cookout. So I made them eat there. And it fit the idea that they would have to eat outside, too, which was what I was making Ariadne sit through. C:_

_Thank you to Legal-Assassin-006, Laurita91, PleaseDon'tGetMeRescued, musicchica10, Comfortably Plump, Jazzy'sgirl112108, Messy Ink, And I'm all out of bubblegum, gpeach6, Alexxis T. Swan! So many new faces, and so many old faces! I love you all for making this story as successful as it is! It has blown my socks off! (And since I currently am not wearing any socks, this is a major feat…) I'm sorry if I missed anyone in my public thanking. Or if I didn't respond to your review, or if I responded too many times. FF . net is going crazy with the emails. None of the links work. D: But I still love ALL OF YOU!_


	15. Offical Extraction

_LOOK! I am starting on time! And this time I want the chapter to come out on time too! I hate this "update every two weeks thing" and so I've decided that for the last few chapters, I want to update as regularly (AKA: weekly) as I can…. However this means I will have to get over my procrastination habit. Seeing as how I've waited this long to do it, I might never stop procrastinating._

_"Procrastinating" is a really annoying word to type with one finger. I'm tired. I'll write this chapter tomorrow some time. My parents ditched me and took my sister and her friends to the beach for the weekend. I was supposed to go. But since I am responsible and have a job, I am stuck at home all by my lonesome. D:_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Fifteen

_Wherein the whole point of the plot is finally completed._

* * *

It was light. But it was the sort of unnatural light that dreams gave off. A watery sun dominated the sky and the light that came from it should have been weak at best. But the light was that of midday. Such was the light of dreams.

Mr. James obviously liked the light, because he hadn't noticed that it was unnaturally bright for such a watery sun. He was there, walking a few steps ahead of Ariadne in that upright walk he always used. How he managed to look so upright while walking, Ariadne had no idea. It was like he had a rebar stuck down his back. There was no hunching. Only a posture that the Queen would have been proud to call her own.

It was only then that Ariadne remembered: they were in a dream. She needed to find what she was after, which was to say: Mr. James' biggest secret. She had to swallow nervously. She had never actually done this by herself. Maybe it was best if Arthur did come and do this himself. She wouldn't want to mess this up.

Then again, she thought. If she was to become a more valuable asset to the team, she had to learn every skill, not just the art of building things in dreams and in reality. She needed to learn to Extract as well.

And this was the perfect opportunity.

Still, the glare of the sun was a bit too bright, and Ariadne could tell from it that she was nervous. She needed to calm down, or else the Mr. James's projections would realize that she was invading on a dream.

But, Ariadne also realized as she continued to trail Mr. James, Mr. James also liked solitude. There was no one else in the dream. There were no projections. Just she and Mr. James, walking down the wooded path to his garage. He didn't seem to want the over population of the cities Ariadne had constructed before. She realized that with no real place to hide, she was very vulnerable if Mr. James had in fact had his mind militarized.

In the middle of wondering what sort of gun Mr. James would whip out from the arsenal of his mind, she noticed that he continued to look over his shoulder at her. Realizing that she was following him rather like a creepy man would in a nightmare, she sped up to walk beside him and hoped fervently that this whole plan would not indeed end up like a nightmare.

The two walked side by side for a few minutes, not speaking. Ariadne wondered if this was natural in a dream. She had never been able to remember her dreams. But Mr. James seemed undisturbed by the silence, and so they continued to walk. The garage loomed closer, and Ariadne knew that she would have to do something, talk to him, if she was to find out the key to the safe that held his darkest secret.

She gulped, and hoped that Mr. James didn't have any terribly dark secrets. She hoped that at worst, he had stolen a candy bar when he was three. Mr. James was a wonderful person, or so she had gathered in the last week she had spent with him. She suddenly realized that she didn't want to know anything bad about him; she didn't want the image she had built up around him to crumble.

Which was obviously another reason Arthur couldn't complete this Extraction. Ariadne had only known Mr. James for a week, and she had built up such a respect for the man. She couldn't imagine a lifetime of respect on the line, waiting to topple because of one secret.

"Ariadne?" Mr. James, of all people, began speaking to her.

Startled, Ariadne pulled herself out of her thoughts and back into the dream.

"Mr. James!" She answered, trying to resume her usual chipper attitude that she wore around him.

"How are we going to finish the house if you're leaving today?" He asked, looking at her with familiar eyes. The kind that crinkled at the corner when he spoke.

Ariadne looked at his face, so young looking, except for the wrinkles. Wrinkles worn from a lifetime of smiling. He was tan, too, probably from a lifetime of watching baseball games of and with his step-son.

He took her silence to mean confusion. "The model house. The one you're building of my house. The one we were working on together." He pointed to the garage, which was still looming in the distance. "The one in the garage."

Ariadne nodded, pretending like she finally understood. "Oh, that house. Well, I'm not leaving for a while. Why don't you and I go work on it for a little while? We won't finish it."

"To finish isn't the goal. Nothing is ever finished. It's just stopped." He said, as he picked up his speed. He looked back at her, and her short legs. "Besides: you'd be surprised how fast I can work when I really need to."

Ariadne didn't doubt his word. The path to the garage had seemed so short at first, but now the garage was upon them. That was the thing about dreams. Time and space didn't connect very well.

Ariadne frowned slightly, feeling as if something wasn't quite right. But she followed Mr. James through the Dutch door and into the garage. On the work table was perched the house model. It was in the same

unfinished, carefully crafted state that it was in the real world. Mr. James made his way over to a stool and began to work with glue. He was gluing on the shingles to the house. For a moment, Ariadne was glad he was doing that. Gluing on shingles was meticulous and finicky work. It took hours and nimble fingers to do it right.

Then she realized that this was just a dream, and that she would still have to glue on the shingles later. She sighed, then perched on a stool aside Mr. James.

"Wow, you're working a lot faster than I ever could." Ariadne commented, slightly astonished. "Maybe it's because I hate that part of the job so much."

"That could be it," Mr. James nodded, shaking the bottle to displace the glue towards the nozzle. "I've always loved doing small detail jobs. You know, the crown molding in my house was all done by me?"

Ariadne smiled and got up to get Mr. James another bottle of glue. The last squirt had brought out nothing but air and a small smattering of glue. "Yes, I do believe you told me that. And I thought you were crazy."

"I love doing small detail work," he said again, with a sigh. It seemed to be more to himself and he spoke contentedly as he continued to smear glue on the roof of the half-finished model house. The glue was running freely from the container he held now, so it must have been a fluke. Ariadne felt slightly foolish, then, standing there with another bottle of glue.

"Here's for later," she said, placing the glue bottle down on the table, next to his elbow.

"Thank you dear," he said, but it looked as if he had no intention of using it.

Ariande sat down next to him again and began listing ways she could get the combination to the safe that must hold his greatest secret. Arthur had told her that the safe in the actual house was under Mr. James' desk, so it should be in the same place in the dream. The only problem was that safes were safe for a reason. They were locked and certain numbers that Ariadne didn't have were required to gain passage into-

"Why are you marrying Eames?" Mr. James asked, in the middle of Ariadne's internal rant.

She blinked her way out of her stupor and felt her face flush a red that would made a stoplight feel shame.

"Er…" Ariadne began. "Wow, you caught me off guard there. Why do I want to marry Eames." She thought it over for a few seconds. "Well, because I want to. We've known each other for a long time, and we were really good friends. One thing led to another, and he was down on his knees proposing to me. It was a bit of a shock really, but I've got used to the idea."

They were all truths. Except the knee part. They were good friends, and one thing had led to the other and had been shocked about having to pretend to marry Eames. And she had gotten used to the idea of having to pretend. The weight of the ring on her hand hadn't been bothering her of late, though she had nearly washed it down the bathroom drain that morning.

"And why not Arthur," Mr. James asked, right on beat. Ariadne flushed a deeper red. He would have to ask that question.

"Errr…" She began again, realizing that this reply was becoming a trend. "Arthur? What gives you that idea? He's my best friend… wouldn't that be weird?"

"Well, aren't you supposed to marry your best friend?" Mr. James asked, starting on the last row of the shingles. He was fast, Ariadne had to admit.

"I guess…" Ariadne answered back, proud that she hadn't started her sentence with errr. "But me and Eames were best friends too. Why do you ask."

"Oh… no reason really." Mr. James answered, in a manner that meant he really did have a reason for asking.

"No reason really…. Uh huh. Tell me why?" Ariadne asked again, poking Mr. James in the arm. The shingle he was placing wiggled out of place, and he had to poke it back into its uniform line with a skinny finger.

"Oh… nothing really." Mr. James said again. Ariadne was about to poke him harder to force him to tell her why, when he started again. "I've just never seen Arthur happier than when he is around you. He tries to hide it. You know, to keep up a manly façade. But there's a look in his eye when he talks to you. We of the James family are good at hiding feelings. But when Arthur gets around you, it's like you've beat down the brick wall we've accidentally taught our children to throw up when they're around people."

"I haven't noticed," Ariande said, picking at the navy thread coming out of her t-shirt. She was suddenly very self-conscious that others had noticed Arthur's looks and that she hadn't noticed them. Especially since they were directed at her…

"Well of course you haven't," Mr. James said, placing the last shingle on the roof. "You've been too busy throwing out your own mushy looks to notice his."

Ariadne's face now considered itself part of the tomato family and now felt no connection to the human part of herself. She hoped there was a fire extinguisher in the garage, because she was about to light on fire. (On her wish, a fire extinguisher appeared on the wall behind Mr. James. She was glad he wasn't facing that way.)

"That's why I was wondering why you wanted to marry Eames," Mr. James continued, suddenly very talkative for the man who raised muted Arthur. "You and Arthur seem to get along better."

There was an awkward silence as Ariande continued to pick the thread out of her shirt, and where Mr. James looked as if he were struggling to decide if he wanted to ask another question. In the end, the thread proved too long to remove from the shirt without destroying it, and Mr. James decided that keeping his question in would be his undoing. So he spoke.

"Did you and my son ever have… anything… at all?" He asked, eyes appraising the window cut outs of the model. He picked up a screwdriver, but did nothing with it. "I know I've asked you this before… but I can't believe that anything between the two of you was one-sided."

Ariadne would have liked to have gained mutant powers at that exact moment. If there were any way she could have sunk through the floor, or turned invisible, she would have been more happy than a goat with a tin can.

"Errr…" There was that word again. But she didn't have the mental capacity to ponder on its over-usage. She was using her full brain power not to melt into the consistency of hair-gel.

_Sometimes it's easier to tell the truth_. Arthurs words from so long ago echoed back in Ariadne's head.

"Yes…" Ariande clasped her hands around the glue bottle. "We did have something…"

_We still do_, she was happy to admit. But she was saddened that she couldn't share it with Mr. James.

"You aren't happy about marrying Eames then?" He asked, placing a big hand over hers.

This was a dream. Anything she said, he wouldn't remember, and if he did… well, it was a dream, not reality. She could tell him the truth. Or half of it.

"No… I'm not really sure that I want to anymore." She answered, and she gave the glue bottle a tiny squeeze. A few drips of glue moved sluggishly towards her fingers and she decided that squeezing the bottle wasn't such a good idea anymore.

"Then why marry him?" Mr. James asked, and he went back to working on the house. He dipped a paintbrush into a can of paint that was next to him and started painting the trim of the house.

Ariadne had to think of reasons. "…Well, I've already put so much effort into this relationship. We're going up to meet my parents this weekend after we looked at houses. It's too far along now, and I think what I'm feeling might just be cold feet."

"And what if this feeling were something else?" Mr. James asked philosophically. "What else could this feeling be?"

Ariadne—whose face had dimmed somewhat—felt the color rise in her cheeks again, like a tsunami. "It might be because I wish I were marrying someone else." She answered truthfully.

"My step-son?" Mr. James asked while he treated her to a tiny half smile.

Ariadne's downcast, sheepish look was answer enough.

"I thought as much," he said, turning back to the house he was painting. "If only this were real."

This last statement made the color drain from Ariadne's face at a rate that would have made jet planes seem slow. "Excuse me?" She asked, spluttering.

How did he know?

"This is all just a figment of my imagination." Mr. James said, shaking his head and smiling slightly. "Everything in here isn't real. I'm the only real thing in here… and even I'm a little bit fake." He looked down at his hands.

Ariadne took a calming breath, then asked Mr. James a question that would determine the rest of the trip into his dream.

"Does that mean I'm not real, too?" She asked, as lightly as she could.

"Of course you aren't real." Mr. James said, and Ariadne felt herself relax. "You're just a figment of my imagination as well. A… projection of my sleeping. There's no way the real Ariadne could get into my brain."

Ariadne hid a smile of irony. But she had to ask.

"How did you know this wasn't real?" She asked, honestly curious.

Instead of replying, he held out his hand, and as if by magic, another glue bottle appeared there. "Things happen in dreams that don't happen in real life." He told her sharply.

That explained the extra glue in the bottle. And the paint appearing out of nowhere. And how he had managed to finish the roof on the model house as fast as he had. Ariadne chided herself. She was in a dream, and she had fallen for the same things a dreamer would. She hadn't thought it odd that a paint can had appeared out of nowhere.

"How do you know this is a dream, and not say… a daydream?" Ariadne asked again, feeling like she shouldn't be the one learning things about dreaming from a man who should (and did) know nothing about extraction.

"Daydreams you are still conscious of your surroundings. Dreams, not so much. Plus, I've always been able to control my dreams. Ever since I was a child; once I knew I was dreaming, I could do pretty much anything I wanted in a dream. I've flown before." He added, seemingly as an offhand comment.

"When did you realize this was a dream?" The thing about dreams was that you weren't supposed to know when you were dreaming. But Mr. James knew. And she wanted to find out.

"About the time that it took far too long to get to the garage," Mr. James answered with a wink. "I'm a detail oriented person. I usually count how many steps it takes to get to the garage, and I exceeded my capacity."

Ariadne silently applauded his anal retentiveness for ruining her dream job.

"That, and you would never wear that shirt in real life," he said, pointing to the t-shirt that had so occupied her attention moments before. She finally looked down at the shirt, and took in the logo on the front.

She nearly puked.

It was the Yankees logo.

If it wasn't for the fact that Mr. James was in the room, she would have stripped off the shirt right there, and run it through the table saw and around the sander a few times.

"This is true," She agreed, swallowing the bile she felt rising in her throat. She was glad this was a dream. But she still would have to take a cleansing bath after this whole experience, real shirt or not.

"Plus, this whole situation is just too good to be true," he said, gesturing around the garage with a wave of his hands. "I'm out in the shop and working again." He looked down at his hands, and Ariande realized why he had been looking at them so much.

His swollen, arthritic knuckles were gone, and replaced by youthful hands. It was weird not to see the knobby joints, but at the same time, the hands were the same strong hand that he had always had. They were now just returned back to their former dexterity.

"I'm working on a model with someone who shares my love of building," He continued looking at the house. Then he looked up at her.

"And you're telling me that you are in love with my son. It's too much goodness for reality. This is obviously a dream."

"You really do love Arthur, don't you?" Ariadne asked softly, oddly touched by Mr. James's caring for his step-son.

"I do. He's the most important thing in my life." Mr. James confessed, hands falling back onto his lap. "I worry so much for him. His sister has got everything all lined up. She's got a fiancé, she's got a steady job. She's lived in one place for so long, and everything seems to be going well for her.

"But Arthur is constantly moving around. He can't seem to make up his mind about anything. I just want him to do well in life. I want him to live comfortably and love well. I don't want him to keep moving. I just want him to settle down and enjoy life like it's supposed to be enjoyed: surrounded by family, and friends, and a woman as nice as you. Even now that he's as tall as me, I can't help but picture him when he was born. December Twenty-first, I held baby Arthur in my arms when he was born. He's so grown up now that I feel like I missed out on so much I could have done for him. I just want him to be happy, and I'm afraid that all I've taught him to do is to build up walls. I haven't loved him like I should have. I wasn't vocal enough in my pride in him."

Mr. James was being awfully sentimental and sweet, but there was one interesting fact that stood out to Ariadne like a red cow in a sea of browns.

"You were there when Arthur was born?" She questioned, wrinkling her eyebrows. "I thought… well, I don't know what I thought."

Mr. James nodded his head. "Me and his mother were already married by the time he was born. Sometimes I think Arthur forgets that. I've always been the one he's called 'dad.'"

"Except he doesn't really call you dad…" Ariadne said, a bit sadly.

She didn't know why Mr. James just wouldn't adopt Arthur. Why he insisted on Arthur being his step-son. It was clear that they both thought of each other as Father and Son.

Mr. James grinned sadly. "It's my only wish that he would."

And suddenly, Ariadne knew the key to the safe.

"Well, dream or not, I need a drink of water." Ariadne said, quickly dispersing the semi-solemn mood that seemed to have filtered in over the top half of the Dutch door.

Mr. James found this request reasonable, and he asked her if she could bring him a soda from the fridge.

For a moment, Ariadne wondered why he seemed so nonchalant after he had just spilled his heart and wishes for Arthur.

Then, she realized, he had thought he had only been talking to a part of himself.

She felt slightly guilty that he hadn't been.

Since it was a dream, and time and space didn't belong to each other, the trek back to the house was a short one. She simply shortened the amount of grass and open field there was between her and the back door and walked a few steps, rather than a few hundred yards. Closing the backdoor softly behind her, she slipped up the fifteen steps to the top of the house.

She winced when she counted only fourteen steps. That had been a design error on her part and she was glad that Mr. James hadn't come with her. Even if he knew it was a dream, and that he could control dreams, he was anal enough to realize that there were only fourteen steps. And if this was his dream, there would have been fifteen. The dream would have collapsed.

And all over one lousy step.

For the remainder of the hall before Mr. James' office, Ariadne hated the James family and their ability to count steps while still maintaining a dignified pace up the steps.

But as she knelt before the safe, all thoughts of the family fled her mind. Except one thought.

_Please be Mr. James' biggest secret, she willed the safe_. She wasn't sure how such a secret got inside the safe, but she thought that if she thought hard enough, it would be in there for her.

When she thought she had thought enough, she took a steadying breath. Then she punched the numbers with a shaking hand.

1-2-2-1

December Twenty-first. Arthur birthday. The most important date in Mr. James' life the day he became a father to a son that was not his.

Cringing, Ariande half waited for an alarm to go off. But, as she had known it would, the safe popped open and the extraction was done.

Now she just needed to read the paper.

She reached into the safe and pulled out a crisp sheet of white paper. It was thicker than normal paper, and she noticed that it had a watermark. Very official, she decided. Very like Arthur. Very like Mr. James.

There was a row of neat lettering at the top in all caps. This was the secret she was after.

She took a deep breath again, and she felt her heart start to pump a bit faster. This was the moment. Mr. James would be explained to her in this one sentence. Never had paper held so much power over her—not even when she had held the envelope that held her acceptance or refusal into the Paris Graduate school.

She read the lettering. And all at once, she proved that fainting was another, less painful way to take one's self out of a dream.

As the darkness closed in around her like a tunnel going down, down, down, the words on the paper reverberated in her skull.

_I, Levitt James, am Arthur James' biological father._

* * *

_SOOOOOOOO! How did you like that, eh? Believe it or not, I've been hinting at that for the ENTIRE STORY! Muahahahahahahaha! I hope that comes as a shocker for some, but I also hope that others have picked up on it as well! I hope I wasn't so obvious that people think: wait, that was supposed to be a surprise. But at the same time, I don't want people to think that this is totally out of the blue. I always use the same descriptor words to describe the two, and I always point out the similarities between the two. And, I gave Mr. James the same half smile that Arthur has. C: I thought I did an okay job. C:_

_Also, sorry about the update wait. I am OFFICIALLY DONE WITH HIGH SCHOOL, but things have a nasty way of getting busy when things are supposed to slow down. I was supposed to have (most of) this week to write this chapter, but life decided that there is no rest for the wicked OR the good, so I had zero time. (You can decide if I am wicked or good for yourself…)_

_And sorry for all of the weird-o, cliched deep stuff. I tried not to overload it. But Mr. James is an old-ish man, he has to spew forth advice and regrets at some point, right?_

_But since I am not an old peson, I don't know exactly what words of wisdom to supply him with... so everything he said sounded like it came out of a chick-flick and someone was dying... I'm sorry. (I hate Nick Sparks, but I am oddly jealous of the way he can do sappy so well... Hate.)_

_And, also (again): I was reading back over my other chapters in preparation for this chapter. Let me tell you the two things I gained from rereading my story: _(Be prepared for utter nerdom...)

_1 . I am a freak of nature. Really. I reread some of my metaphors and they are a tiny bit crazy. Although some of them I am still proud of. There was an metaphor about Ariadne having a head s level marbles stood still on it. Let me impart to you the ultra wittiness of this metaphor, so you can bow and scrape to me as the artistic god of the universe. I combined TWO ideas/idioms into one statement. She had such a level head that marbles stood still on it. Great imagery, right. Marbles don't hold still. They like to move around! And disappear on you._

_But that is not the only awesome thing about this idea. Next, I added lava to the mix. Who doesn't like lava, right?_

_Well Ariadne's head/brain doesn't like lava, that's who! Because it was burning holes in her brain and making her LOSE HER MARBLES! Losing your marbles means that you are losing your mind. AND SHE WAS._

_Can you all appreciate my genius for a little while? And can you all please ignore the fact that I cannot spell to save my life._

_But really. A lot of those metaphors were completely crazy. And all of my weird descriptions. I think they're great. But as readers, you must think I'm a complete freak of nature._

_And now onto thing-I-noticed-Number-Two:_

_2 . …I forgot. OH! RIGHT!_

_I'll have you know. I write EXACTLY how I write. (Sorry for all the capital letters. But as this is already italicized and I hate bolding, it's really hard to stress words in any other way…)_

_Take this sentence for example._

_"'I propose that we swap information. I'll ask a question, which you will answer, and then you will ask a question which I will answer.'" (Ties, Chapter Eight: "Back Up.")_

_This is something I would actually say in real life. My anatomy partner got mad at me once for using such big words. My class Junior year made fun of me for writing "I alerted my mother and my father that I would not be attending school that day," in a paper. They told me that no one talked that way, and all of my friends alerted my class to the fact that: yes she does._

_It's in my blood I guess. My sister talks the same way._

_Just know that you're getting the real me, kiddies. I'm not trying to write in any way that's different from who I am._

_I don't know if this should be a comfort to you or not…_

_Anyway, this is COMPLETELY unedited. I'm sorry, but it's super late (12:52 is late for me, okay?) and even though I don't have school tomorrow, I really should have gone to bed three hours ago. So this also explains why I'm not posting public thank-yous at the bottom. Maybe one day I'll go through and add them in, but right now, I'm too tired to look up all y'all's names. Sorry dearies..._

_THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU PEOPLE! (review to make it all better. C:)_


	16. Double Dip

_I'm starting. And Y'all are going to hate me…. But I'll tell you why later. C: First you have to get through this chapter._

_And you might hate me because… well, you'll see._

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Sixteen

_Wherein there is a double dip_

-Dedicated to: Amelia M, who was my 200th reviewer!-

* * *

The back of her head was warm, but she didn't open her eyes right away.

She didn't know what she was going to say to Arthur. There was nothing to say: besides a bombshell, a cannonball, an explosion.

Mr. James was Arthur's father.

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to see his face, see what he would look like when he found out that his only dream was a reality.

Mr. James was Arthur's father.

But she knew what his face would show, and this was why she couldn't tell him.

At first there would be shock. Then there would be disbelief. And then there would be joy.

And then there would be questions.

Mr. James was Arthur's father.

So why couldn't he let him know? Why would he keep it a secret? What was there to gain from keeping something like this a secret?

Mr. James was Arthur's father.

It was what they both wanted, so why keep it a secret?

Then she remembered that she had to open her eyes soon, or else Arthur wouldn't know that the dream was over. And then Mr. James would wake up and he would see that he was connected to the PASIV and he would know something was irregular. The needles were incriminating. They would be lucky if he didn't see the track mark that the needle left.

She opened her eyes, which were watering as a residual from lying down for so long. Her face was still chilly, but the back of her head was still warm. She was in the back seat of the car, stretched out across the whole seat, with her feet up on the window. She didn't remember lying down, but it was better than being curled up in a ball with her face plastered against the window and a train of drool huffing its way down the glass.

"Ariadne?" Arthur's face swam into her watery view and it was then she realized why her head was warm. It was on Arthur's knee.

"You're a really warm person," Ariadne commented, still sluggish from the PASIV drug.

Arthur pinked up, and Ariadne was instantly jealous that when Arthur blushed, the rest of his body didn't emit heat like her body did. If Dream Diving didn't work, she thought, at least she would have a job as a space heater. Just get Arthur in the room with her and she could make fire seem chilly.

Arthur lifted her head off of his knee and climbed back into the front seat. When he was able to maneuver himself past all of the Cookout cups, he began pulling tube from Mr. James' wrist and to twist up the wires to stow back in the case. Ariadne, too, removed the tube from the back of her hand—she didn't care about needle marks on herself—and handed it to Arthur. She waited for the inevitable question.

It never came.

"Will you store this in my suitcase?" Arthur asked, handing her the silver case that held the PASIV.

Ariadne raised an eyebrow as she took the case from over the front seat. "Will it fit?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, removing the watch that covered Mr. James' needle marks. "There's nothing in my suitcase but the PASIV. I threw out my suits so that the PASIV would fit."

Ariadne had to say something about how normal people never would throw away the kinds of suits Arthur owned, not even if the knees wore out. It wasn't good form to be so wasteful.

But Ariadne had to agree with his plan. The PASIV would pass customs if they checked it as a suitcase, and the PASIV weighed about as much as her suitcase did. She didn't know if this was a good or bad thing. But she pushed the thought aside, telling herself that it was good she was a light packer. She was a little girl, and the company she was presently in was not men of class that would carry a bag for her. They were too busy throwing away Dolce and Gabbana suits like leaves and forgetting that they had fiancés.

However, Ariadne managed to keep her mouth shut about both of these thoughts. She pushed her car door open and hooked a leg out of the car. They were on a time crunch, she knew. They needed to get back on the road before Mr. James woke up. And they needed to get home before it seemed like too much time had elapsed from them being gone.

She was on a time crunch too, she knew.

She knew it was only a matter of time before Arthur had to ask what Mr. James' biggest secret was.

Ariadne felt she knew what was going through Arthur's head.

He didn't want to know what Mr. James' biggest secret was. He didn't want to know what went on inside his step-father—Ariadne corrected herself—_father's_ head. He didn't want an image smudged because of one memory, one thought, one secret.

But Arthur was forever and always a point man. He was a collector of facts, an observer of details. Arthur would tell himself that he didn't want to know about Mr. James' deepest secret.

But not knowing was a free radical, a loose rocket, an unknown. In Arthur's world and in his employment, there could be no unknowns.

He would have to ask sooner or later, because it was just in his nature to know everything that there was to know.

And Ariadne had to be ready with something when he did.

Mr. James was Arthur's father.

There was a bulge in her jacket pocket.

The PASIV weighed about as much as her suitcase did.

Arthur popped the trunk, and Ariadne took her time stowing the PASIV away.

She got back in the car and hoped that both her smile and nervousness were hidden.

* * *

They arrived back at Casa De James will little to know chatter or back and forth banter. Mr. James woke up a few miles from the house, and apologized to the two young people for falling asleep on them, but that was just what old people did.

Ariadne allowed herself a small smile at that.

A smile that was killed when she saw what was for dinner.

The main course was fine.

But the side dish.

It was goat cheese pasta.

Ariadne had to cringe a little at her plate. While Eames next to her praised the dinner, Ariadne worked very hard to make her small pile of goat cheese pasta look as giant as possible so that when she scraped the last of her green beans and meat and gravy off of her plate, it would look like she had eaten some of the pasta too. This was her plan. She hoped it worked.

It seemed that the James family needed to fit as much chatter into dinner as was possible. Over the clacking of the fork and knife on china, there was a collection of chatter and back and forth banter that wasn't present in the car ride home. Judging from the faces of the family, they didn't know the next time they would see each other, and since they hadn't spent this whole time talking, they needed to fit as much bonding into this time as was possible.

Ariadne suddenly felt a huge surge of affection for this dysfunctional family—even Rachel. It was nothing like her family, which was dysfunctional in its own way. The James family seemed to be the kind that realized it loved the other members of the family right when they had to split up. But it was a love that was remembered, not discovered. It was a love that was just held dormant until they had to think about it again. The family didn't seem like they would ever have a family reunion, but when they all got together, outsiders looking in wondered why they didn't hold family reunions more often. It was obvious that they loved being with each other.

But it was not the way of the James family. There was no reason why. It just was.

Ariadne glazed most of the conversation out. She felt she should be listening to their discussions, but there was so much else to think about. She was only brought back into reality when she saw a fork flicker in and out of her vision.

It was Eames, eating her goat cheese pasta. Both because he had remembered that he was "engaged" to her and because he was eating the hated goat cheese pasta, she felt a surge of affection towards the scruffy man as well. She was feeling the love toward all of them. She was happy.

And with that love, she and her two men loaded themselves in the car that Mr. James was using to drive them to the airport. The love died and was replaced by a sense of excitement when she realized that they were running late.

This was perfect.

The car ride to the airport wasn't quite as quiet as the ride from DC earlier in the day. For some reason with Eames in the car, Mr. James felt the need to talk, and the two soon fell into a discussion about Football vs. Futbol and the pros and cons of both. Ariadne listened with a passive interest and managed to learn a great deal about Arsenal Football Club and why it was the best team on the planet. She didn't learn much about whatever football team the James family supported, because Mr. James seemed more at ease listening to Eames ramble on and on about Arsenal than interjecting his own thoughts. He too was a data collector, it appeared.

Like father like son.

And they were nearly to the airport, and Ariadne's hands suddenly were covered in a layer of sweat deep enough to rival the ocean at its deepest.

True to the James family, Mr. James dropped them off at the curb without fanfare and drove away after everyone had their luggage out of the trunk. The James family were as bad at saying good bye as they were at saying hello.

They were still running a bit late. Arthur sped off without a word with his luggage toward the gate, and Ariadne hugged her suitcase close. Eames took a little more time in arranging his carry-on bag a top his rolling bag, then gestured for Ariadne to follow him toward the gates.

"I know you have a hard time reading English, love, so I'll lead this time." He held out a hand to her and she took it, taking comfort in the largeness of his hand. They didn't have to pretend to be engaged anymore, but Ariadne needed the comfort. She was about to break all rules.

His hand was warm, but Ariadne saw the distraction she needed.

"Eames," she said, pointing to an art shop a few feet in front of the lines of people getting their carry-on bags checked. "I'm going to look around there. I promised my parents that I'd bring them back a gift and… I don't have one."

She didn't. At least any more.

"I'm going to look around, m'kay?" she said quickly, fiddling with the green scarf around her neck.

Eames fixed her with a level look and planted his feet before crossing his arms. The way he was looking at her was reminiscent of a father looking down at a misbehaving child. She felt a little bit small and she fiddled with the handle of her suitcase.

"What's going on Ariadne? Why are you trying to miss your plane?" He wasn't smiling. He wasn't joking.

That was nearly as freaky as the fact that he had figured out what was going on.

Because she _was_ trying to miss her airplane.

"I'm not trying to miss my plane," Ariadne scoffed, adding a small laugh.

Eames didn't laugh. He was still strangely serious. "Why are you lying to me? What's up, Ariadne?"

There was no use in lying. Once Eames was suspicious, there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

She sighed, and waved Eames out of line. The couple behind them stepped thankfully into their place. They rolled their suitcases toward one of the benches by the window. As they sat, Ariadne told Eames part of her plan.

"I learned Mr. James's big secret," Ariadne explained. "But I need to know why."

Eames looked confused, which she had expected. She continued before Eames was able to ask the question she knew he would.

"I'm not going to tell you what his secret is until I figure out why it's a secret."

"So you're going to have Mr. James pick you up and you're going to somehow delve into his dreams."

Ariadne nodded, astounded that Eames had caught on so quickly to her plan.

Eames unfolded his arms. "Well, if you think it will work, I have only three questions."

Ariadne prepared herself for the three questions.

"A: How do you plan on getting Mr. James to let you stick him with a needle?"

Ariadne answered without a word. Instead she held up the same vial of whatever sleeping drug Arthur had used before. He seemed to have returned the vial to her jacket, and it had been a blessing to find.

Eames nodded, impressed.

"Good, good. Now, onto B: how do you aim to complete this task without a PASIV?"

Again, Ariadne answered without words. Instead she rolled her suitcase a little closer to herself, assuring herself that she hadn't lost the precious cargo inside.

Eames's eyes got as wide as the hubcaps on Mr. James' car. "Wait. Don't tell me that the PASIV is inside your suitcase."

Ariadne nodded. "I nabbed it from Arthur after the first time we dream dove into Mr. James' head. Arthur's carting around all of my luggage. I put it in his bag when I took the PASIV from his." To answer Eames' questioning look, Ariadne answered with a shake of her head.

"He threw away all of his suits."

Eames looked just as shocked as she had when Arthur had told her.

Eames shook his head as if to clear _those_ blasphemous thoughts out of his brain. "Anyway. Aside from wondering at the way our Pointman throws away money, I have one more question for you."

He gave her hard look, and Ariadne braced herself for his last question.

"How do you plan to call Mr. James? I for one don't have his phone number."

Ariadne had expected a much harder final question, so she managed to smile at Eames. She held up her cell phone, providing once more, an answer by observation.

"I managed to snag it before we left. I said that I'd need to keep in contact with him to see how he does on that house."

Eames looked confused on what house Ariadne was talking about, but he took her words in stride when he realized that he had asked all three questions he said he would. "Well, Ariadne, I must say I am impressed. What a magnificent display. If you weren't such a fantastic Architect and if Arthur weren't such a such a detail zealot, I'd say that you would have a career as our pointman."

Ariadne winked at him, agreed, and handed out a high five that failed rather miserably. But they laughed together, and sat at the bench, waiting for their airplane to take off so they could call Mr. James and have him come pick them up. Ariadne wasn't sure when she had given Eames permission to help her on this mission, but she realized after his fourth terrible knock-knock joke that she was glad he never waited for permission. She didn't know why she thought she could have handled the stress of an impromptu Extraction by herself.

With Eames there with her, it didn't take long for the plane to take off, and it didn't take long for Mr. James to show up with his half smile and popped trunk. With Eames's acting skills, it wasn't hard for them to pull over to a deserted rest stop on the side of the high way to use the restroom. And when Ariadne found out that Mr. James hated goat cheese pasta as much as she didn't, it didn't take long for her to propose a toast to destroying the terrible thing.

And from there, it didn't take long before Mr. James was stretched out on one of the wooden benches deep in a copse of trees, knocked out flat by the small dose of sleeping drug Ariadne had spiked his vending machine Mountain Dew with.

On her way into the dream, there was no kiss on her forehead like there had been before. But there was a hand around hers, and Ariadne knew that this dream wouldn't take that long.

* * *

_Woo! Done! And I hope you guys don't think that there is any sort of Ariadne/Eames going on here. I've just always pictured the two of them having a wonderfully weird friendship, where in one moment they are terrible to each other then the next moment they're telling each other their deepest darkest secrets and the like._

_Also… for those of you who have seen A Very Potter Musical… I made A Very Potter Sequel reference there at the end. I don't know if y'all picked it out. It wasn't one of the well known lines like "supermegafoxyawesomehot," but it was still very lovely. C:_

_For those of you who don't know what in the world I'm talking about, I dare you to find out. If you like Harry Potter and you like musicals and you don't mind a bit of a college-age humor, then you will make your life more complete by going to watch A Very Potter Musical on youtube. But be prepared. It's a looooong musical. And it has a sequel if you finish the first and you still need more. I had the unlucky chance that I had to wait a whole year before seeing the second one, but YOU ALL CAN WATCH THEM IN ONE DAY CHICKIES!_

_Really, it's a fantastic musical? You know Blaine from Glee? Yeah… he's from this. Darren Criss wrote this whole play. I kind of hate it that he's in Glee now, but I won't get on that tirade. I guess I'll be happy he's doing so well._

_**VERY IMPORTANT **!_

_So… tomorrow I leave for the place where dreams come true. That's right. I'm going to Disneyworld. I am super excited!_

_However… this means killer things for y'all. Let me lay it out for you._

_17-25 June: DISNEYWORLD_

_28-29 June: College orientation_

_30 June: Taylor Swift Concert_

_1-5 July: working all day, everyday_

_(All days come with work in between)_

_Basically, my June rocks… But I won't be updating for about… 3 weeks? At least._

_So yeah. You can shoot me._

_But if you shoot me… I WON'T EVER UPDATE! EAT THAT!_

_But really, I am sorry. Just be happy that I get to go to Disneyworld for the first time in my life. ever. And I'm going with a bunch of my friends with basically no parental supervision. Yes. My life is awesome._

_Read and Review! After all, I'm leaving tomorrow for a full week vacation and I still haven't packed all because I wanted to get this out to you! *_thumbs up_*_


	17. Unofficial Extraction

_Ah… there's nothing like sitting down to write a chapter of my story for reviewers like you. Except for perhaps sitting down and writing the story while watching reruns of _That 70s Show_. Which means that I might be super, super distracted while I write this. Which is no good. I'm sorry. But I love this show._

_(I hope that you don't hate me for the terribly long A/Ns I put at the beginning and end of every chapter. I'm thinking about that now… I just think that reading is a personal endeavor. And since I'm writing this for you to read, I want you to know a bit about me, so that I'm not just some random person whose writing you read on a bimonthly basis. You and I are people who have a connection. To me, you aren't just random people sitting at a computer. You are each people. I actually have a picture of what each of you look like in my head. That sounds creepy, but it is true. I want y'all to know me as a person, as well as a writer, so that you will know I am sincere in my writing. I don't know if that makes sense… but I just feel like, as I have stated before, reading is a personal thing. I don't want anything about this story to be impersonal…)_

_Anywho, I'll start now._

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Seventeen

_Wherein Mr. James talks more than he normally would_

* * *

Ariadne wondered if in a dream there could come a sense of déjà vu. Because, as the warmth of Eames's knee left the back of her head, she found herself walking under the same canopy of trees that she had walked under earlier that same day. And there was Mr. James in front of her, like he had been before, in the same pressed shirt and the collar he still chose to starch.

Everything was as it had been earlier in the day. There was even the same unnatural length between the house and the garage. The leaves were the same burnt tinfoil color—yellow, and daring one another to fall off of the trees but none daring enough to be the first. The path was clear ahead of her, no one there but Mr. James, walking with that same upright walk that only he managed to make look natural.

Natural. The word struck a chord with her.

Natural. The trees next to her were the same smooth barked trees, with the occasional tumor where an old branch had been removed. But they were in diagonal lines; rows back the trees became flat—about like a painting. Ariadne tried not to pay too much heed to this. Instead, she looked back at the house to see if it was any farther away than the last time she had seen it. She needed this dream to be fast and fruitful.

Instead of seeing the reassuring house in its grassy clearing, her worry started to amplify. The glass in the windows wasn't clear. It was black, like there was nothing behind it.

Because there wasn't anything behind it.

This dream was shoddily constructed. It was a rush job. She hadn't been given enough time to think over the setting where the dream would take place. Then she shook her head. She shouldn't have needed to. It was such an engrained and natural reaction just to _memorize_ places. She had been thinking of this setting for so long, she shouldn't have had to think of what it looked like to create it in the dream. Something was wrong. There was something oppressive around her.

It was a foreign place to her. The whole place had a foreign feel. An unnatural feel.

Unnatural. That was the word. She wondered how this could be possible. As they walked, she puzzled. They were in her subconscious. How could she feel like this? How could she be a foreign body in her own subconscious? It didn't make sense.

She shook her head and told herself it didn't matter. If the dream was unstable—which it was—it was more important that she get information out of Mr. James quickly. Passive action was an oxymoron—she didn't know how she had been performing this feat for her entire life. Now was the time for action.

The walk up to Mr. James only involved a few steps, and in those steps, they reached the garage. Mr. James held open the Dutch door for her. She stepped inside the garage without a word, too distracted by all the possible words she could say, bouncing like rubber all around her hollow skull.

They sat at the same table, in front of the same, unfinished house that they had finished on a few hours before. _Never finished_—Ariadne corrected herself. They had finished it in a dream. This was a dream again. They were starting fresh.

Mr. James gave the house one look, and sighed.

"I'm dreaming again, aren't I?" He asked, pulling the house toward himself and fingering the few walls that were upright.

Ariadne nodded, but still didn't say anything.

Mr. James sighed, and shook his head. "I thought this felt familiar."

He smiled softly, and looked at her. "I've had this dream before. You here, with me, finishing this house. You, wearing that ring. It looks like something Arthur would pick out."

Ariadne withdrew her hand from the table, and fidgeted with the ring that was on her finger.

He was dreaming. He wouldn't remember any of this. Or so she hoped.

"He did pick it out." She said, spinning it around her finger. She had mostly forgotten about the ring. It had grown to be an extension of her finger, something like a hair clip. Something you put on in the morning for practical purposes.

Mr. James smiled still wider, and gestured for her to hand him the ring. She did, so and he eyed it with the eye for detail that he had passed on to Arthur. "Yes. This looks like something Arthur would pick. Nice, quietly extravagant, but still practical. My boy has an eye for things like this. From far away, it doesn't look like much, but up close, it's something that you need to keep safe. Rather like the wearer, if I do say so myself."

Ariadne blushed, and took the ring from Mr. James as he handed it back. She put it back on her finger, and realized that she needed to say something to that statement.

"From far away I don't look like much?" She asked, lowering her eyebrows to nearly cover her eyes. "I don't know if you just complemented me, or if I should be offended."

Mr. James let out a small chuckle. "Yes, that didn't come out exactly the way I wanted it to. But I don't consider myself blessed with the power of speech, so you'll just have to know that I meant well by it."

Ariadne allowed her eyebrows to rise back to their natural position on her face. She made a teepee of her hands and perched her chin on them. She allowed a silence to extend over their conversation as she looked around the garage, still not at ease with the tension around her. Mr. James seemed completely at ease in his garage, and had even summoned a bottle of glue to start putting the house back together.

"If we're in a dream, why don't you just wish the house back together? You could just think '_model_ _house! Come together_!' and the house would all be set up." Ariadne gestured wildly with her arms in a way that was slightly reminiscent of something magical. "That way you wouldn't have to put it all together. It would save work. And time."

Mr. James set his glue bottle and folded his hands like he was preparing to give her the world's longest lecture. "Ariadne. The old adage says that the world just doesn't hand you things. Work is half the experience. The only thing that comes to you on a platter is a whole bunch of dead meat. I can throw around all the clichés in the world. Clichés are clichés for a reason: they're so true that they keep being repeated."

"So, basically what you're saying is that you don't wish the house would finish itself because it won't happen in the real world?" Ariadne understood that you had to work for what you wanted. But this was a dream. Not a reality. And he knew this.

Mr. James shook his head, smiling. "In a way, I guess that's what I'm saying. Not really though."

"You said so yourself. This is a dream. And Walt Disney taught me as a child that dreams can come true." Ariadne told him. "Why not dream unrealistically and dream that it happens?"

Ariadne was abruptly reminded of Cobb. He had dreamed for so long of being reunited with Philipa and James, and his dreams had come true. He was together with them at last, coming back from a long stay at Disneyland, the place where dreams came true. Ariadne filed a note away in her brain to head to the Magic Kingdom when she had her next chance. She was suddenly feeling a great amount of warmth toward Mr. Disney.

Mr. James patted Ariadne's hand. "I agree with you there, little lady."

He turned back to finishing his house, but he continued to talk to her. "Another old saying is that if you dream it enough, it will someday happen."

He smeared some glue around while he looked at her again. "I seem to have you in my dreams a lot recently. You and me here, finishing a model house. Like a third child. You and me sitting here, chatting and you wearing a ring that my Arthur picked out. This is one of my dreams I wish would come true. And if I dream it enough, it will come true, or at least the old saying promises.

"But I guess I can't live in dreams, now can I? Which is why I don't wish that the house would finish itself. You were right about that. But there's another reason I don't wish for the house to finish itself."

"And what would that be?" Ariadne asked, still thumbing the ring around her finger. She felt her hair move without wind, and she guessed that Eames had just moved. The dream was becoming more unstable.

"Work is half the experience," Mr. James quoted again. "I enjoy working on the house. I don't wish it to come together, because _I_ want to put it together. I like the work. I like working here with you. I don't want the house to finish itself. I want to finish the house. The things in life that are worth anything are the things that are worth working to finish."

"Like your relationship with Arthur?" She asked, and instantly Mr. James's eyes shot to her face. "After so long of him thinking you're his step father, you can't just tell him that you're his father, right? You've had to build up the relationship, right? He can't just instantly become your son after he hasn't been yours for so long. You have to work on a relationship. That's why you haven't told him, right?"

Mr. James sighed, and nodded, then shook his head. "Yes… and no. I guess I'm just too nervous to tell him."

"Why would you be nervous, Mr. James?" She asked, heart beating as she realized that the conversation was finally on topic. "It's what both of you want. You both want to have the relationship that has been hidden for so long. Why won't you tell him?"

"I don't tell him, because I know Arthur." Mr. James explained. "I think you know this too. Of course you do, you're part of me. You're not actually Ariadne," Mr. James said the last few bits to himself, rather than to Ariadne, and the stool underneath her became more firm. The dream was stabilizing.

And then Ariadne understood. They weren't in her subconscious, like she had thought. They were in Mr. James's subconscious. She felt foreign because she _was_ foreign. She shouldn't be here, and both of them knew it. Mr. James knew it subconsciously, which wouldn't have been a problem in any other circumstance than the one they were in. Seeing as how she was perched at a table in Mr. James's subconscious, this was a major problem. It was only because he thought that she was a part of his dream that she hadn't been expelled and the dream hadn't ended. She didn't know how long the dream would last—she didn't know how long it would be until he realized that she wasn't just a part of a dream. He had complete control over the dream—he had built it, and he would populate it.

"I know Arthur." Mr. James continued, and Ariadne pulled herself out of her mental mess. She was here to learn, and she couldn't mess this up by not paying attention. "I know him. He would be glad at first, or so I think. But then he would have questions. Questions I don't want to answer."

"What questions, Mr. James?" Ariande asked, knowing full well what questions these would be.

"Why did I keep it a secret in the first place? He'd want to know why I kept it a secret. And then I wouldn't be able to tell him."

Ariadne was a bit shocked. "Why wouldn't you be able to tell him, Mr. James?"

"Because I'd be too ashamed of my reasons." He rubbed his tired face with his gnarled hands, and Ariadne saw that he did indeed look ashamed. He didn't look like the same quiet Mr. James that Ariadne had met. He just looked tired—tired of every little thing. Tired of his arthritis, tired of his dreams, tired of his children that never came to see him. He was just tired. And ashamed.

"Mr. James. Why didn't you tell Arthur?" Ariadne asked, straight out. There was no point in dodging around the question like they had been doing for the last few moments. It was time for the truth to come out, or it was time for Ariadne to go.

For a few moments, Mr. James just sat at his chair, hands hovering over the model house, an internal struggle showing externally on his face where wrinkles spread out like highway lines on a map.

"I don't tell Arthur because I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of why I didn't tell him in the first place."

Mr. James didn't look at her, but she could feel an aura coming off of him, wishing for her to believe him.

"When Arthur was born, his mother was still married to a man of a… _reckless_ nature: the man Arthur actually believes to be his father. She had been looking for a way out of that relationship for years, and the divorce papers were signed on the same day that Arthur was born. It was a quiet ceremony, the divorce. What had been a turbulent and terrible marriage ended peacefully. It seemed that becoming a father had a calming effect on the man.

"Because everyone thought that he actually was the father. For about thirteen years, we three adults walked around presuming that Arthur was the son of a man who was not me. And to tell you the truth, I was happy not knowing he was my son. I was an unhappy person over all—I had had to change careers, from carpenter to politician, and I wasn't happy. So it was good to know that if anything ever went wrong with Arthur, I could blame it on his good for nothing father. I had nothing to do with the genetics of the boy—I was just raising him. Any wrong doing was ultimately the fault of his real father, not me.

"It was a rough spot in my life, and rough for everyone else. I was unhappy, and I made sure everyone else was as unhappy as I was.

"And then came the day of blood testing. We realized that Arthur had the same blood type as me, not his 'father.' When Arthur was about thirteen, we realized that he was my child. We realized without a doubt that he was my child. We had been raising him for thirteen years as another man's child, when he was actually mine.

"I didn't even have the opportunity to feel guilty for feeling the way I had been thinking. Arthur's 'father' had turned back to his sinful life after the shock of fatherly responsibility wore off. And a few days after we found out that Arthur was my son, he was brought before me, now a judge, as a person ready for trial. I sentenced him to prison for a long while, and now he hates me. I'm the man that wrecked his life. I'm the man that ended whatever business he had in the mobs; I'm the man that stole his wife; I'm the man that raised his son.

"But it was that 'son of his' that kept me from being tracked down by his henchmen. It seems that he still retains some of that fatherly love that he gained when he first saw Arthur as a baby. He thinks Arthur is his child. For some reason, he loves Arthur, even though they've never met. He sends Arthur birthday cards every year, always to us. We never give them to Arthur, of course, but he still continues to send them. It's kind of touching, if you think about it.

"Arthur does have that kind of power over people," Ariadne smiled, thinking of Arthur's rough and tumble 'father' penning birthday card after birthday card from his cell in prison. It was cute to consider, and Ariadne wondered if it wouldn't have been better if Arthur had been given those cards, regardless.

Mr. James nodded, but he was on a roll, and would not be distracted from his diatribe. "He does indeed. And I seized that power. It was a godsend, I told myself. I seized onto the fact that this pretend relationship between Arthur and his pretend father existed. I told myself—we have to raise Arthur as the other man's son, so that retribution doesn't fall on the family. If the other man figured out that Arthur wasn't actually his son, he would be enraged and come after me. I would become the man that wrecked his life, the man that stole his wife, the man that even stole his son away from him. There would be nothing protecting our family.

"And so I used Arthur as a shield. A shield from a man who could have killed us all without a second thought.

"But I also used Arthur as a shield from my guilt. I had blamed all of his weaknesses on a father that wasn't really his. And in doing so, I had been the worst father figure a person could be. Sure, I supported him and loved him and wanted the best for him, like a father should have. But secretly, every time he failed, I was a bit smug and comforted myself, by blaming his failure on his other father, not on any failure on my part.

"I used Arthur's relationship with this man, this other father, as an excuse not to tell him that I was his real father. I told myself that we needed to keep up the ruse of this alternate father to protect the family. I even convinced Arthur's mother to do the same.

"But really I was just being a coward. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I was subconsciously realizing that I had been a lousy father. I should have been a better father to the boy. But I hadn't been. I had prided myself on being the epitome of justice and right doing, but in all reality, I was worse that Arthur's fake father. Because at least his fake father had had a real love for the boy. He sent him cards every year, even when he didn't get a response. He had a steadfast love for a boy that I never really claimed as my own.

"And so, Ariadne, even now when I want to tell Arthur about being his father, that same pride that started this all crops up again, and impedes me from telling him. We both want this, but I can't let my little boy know that he has a louse for a father. I'm the worst excuse for a father that a boy could ask for. I'm a father that can't take responsibility for my own problems. I raise the boy blaming faults of my own on a man who had nothing to do with raising a boy. Genetics or no, I had raised the boy. Genetics only go so far. I knew that back then, but I still insisted on outsourcing my frustration to another person. It was easier to say that Arthur acted up because of his genes, not because I hadn't raised him properly. And then when I figured out that he actually was my child, I couldn't tell him because I somehow worked it out in my brain that this fake relationship would save us from the wrath of his fake father. The man is locked up for life in prison, for goodness sake! There was no threat! But I was ashamed of my actions, so I made a cover-up.

"And now, I can't tell him still, because I'm ashamed of all of this. I can't tell him, because I want him to respect me as a father. But if I do tell him… well, see, this pride of mine still gets in the way. I won't let myself tell him, because I know that he'll lose respect for his father. His lazy, self serving father. The irresponsible father, who blames his problems on his son.

It seemed that Mr. James had exhausted his need for speech, and lapsed back into the silence that so often accompanied this man.

"Mr. James," Ariadne voiced, looking ahead unblinkingly. He didn't look over at her, but she knew he had heard. She too was wrapped up in her own thoughts, and her eyes felt glazed with a film on which her brain projected her thoughts. "That thing you said about dreams coming true… Do you ever dream about telling Arthur who his real father is?"

Mr. James rubbed his sad, dark eyes, and fixed her with a look that would have speared a wild boar clean through.

"All the time."

Ariadne matched his gaze, as she felt her stool wobble. The dream was falling apart. She could tell. "Well then, sir. If you dream it enough, it's sure to come true. Like you said. Some things in life are just worth working for. It'll happen. Someday, your fondest dream will become a reality. And then you won't be able to tell the difference between the two."

As the tunnel vision that signaled the end of the dream came to her, she heard Mr. James whisper something.

"That would be my fondest dream."

As the last bits of the dream begin to be sucked into the corners of reality, Ariadne saw the car and Eames start to come back into focus. But Mr. James was still in front of her on the stool and his hands were still clasped in front of him. As the dream faded, she grabbed Mr. James' hands and placed them on the model house. As reality began to overtake, and as she began to wake up, she whispered back:

"Then go for it."

* * *

_Dude. I feel such a feeling freedom after writing that. Whoooooooo. I hope it wasn't terribly cliché! (Oh, and And I'm All Out Of Bubblegum. I sent you a PM. You might want to check that. C: )_

_Disney was awesome, for those of you who are curious. But it was like one of those Senior trips for the movies. Literally. I was thinking about this when I was walking my dog today. For starters, there were six girls all living together in one house. Then we had to keep the entire trip a secret, because one of my friends wasn't invited—wooo! Drama!—and then the drama continued as my group of friends experienced the high school dose of infighting that we never had while we were in high school. Then one of my friends got sick. Then, randomly while I was standing in line for Thunder Mountain I spotted my two old best friends from when I lived in Seattle. How weird is that? I was just standing in line, and BANG! I see the two boys I never thought I would see again. I got to reunite with their family and catch up with them. It was nice, because, like I said, I never thought I'd see them again. We both moved away from our common ground, and they live all the way across the country. Then, that very night, after watching the fireworks, one of my friends fainted and I had to wheel her onto a boat in a wheel chair to get her home to where four of us would have a heart to heart and two others tried to rip out each other's throats. After that, the excitement calmed down, and the trip progressed like a normal trip would have. But dude. Isn't that trip like a really bad soap opera? The only thing that would have made it more chick-flick-y would have been if one of my friends had randomly fallen in love with a person at Disneyworld and had a sickly sweet farewell scene with him._

_But really. All that aside, Disney was great. I managed to keep myself out of all of the drama (though I didn't do a very good job of stopping it…) and managed to have a wonderful time. For the record, Harry Potter World was about the most amazing experience of my life… I got a wand. And I rode all of the rides about seventeen million times. And I had butterbeer and pumpkin juice. And I got a scarf and pins and chocolate frogs. My life is made. Except now I really want to go to Hogwarts for real. (And can I say that it makes me uncontrollably happy that my computer just autocorrected Hogwarts to have a capital letter? And that while my computer will autocorrect Hogwarts, it doesn't recognize Obama as a word. This shows where it's loyalties lie. C; )_

_Back to _Ties_:_

_I don't know if you realize this… but I was planning on having that be the last chapter…_

_But since I'm nice to you guys, and I like you guys, I thought I'd give you one more chapter. You may hate me at the end of that chapter, but just know that you all get one more chapter with me before I bring _Ties_ to an end. D:_

_SO! Since this is the case, let me know what you thought! Please Review! I've been super busy, so I haven't been able to get back to the reviews you posted for last chapter. I feel super guilty about that, so you can give me a hard time about that if you want to... but I promise that I will try my hardest to get back to EVERY SINGLE PERSON this time! I will try! I've been a super lazy and a super busy person these last few weeks. I'm sorry. D: But I just realized that I have 210 reviews... for this story. Oh. My. Gosh. I never would have expected that from this story. Really. And this is all thanks to YOU! I don't leave the reviews. **You** are the reason I have so many reviews. Think about that. This means that you all are amazing. (You are doubly amazing for the fact that you always end my review count on a multiple of 5. It sooths my slight OCD tendencies!) So, THANK YOU!_


	18. Little Bird

_There is happy, happy news at the bottom of this chapter._

_I don't know how well this chapter will go. So here I go!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter Eighteen

_Wherein Ariadne talks to a little Bird_

* * *

Coming back was a shock. That much was apparent. It seemed in the four hours it had taken to get to the airport, drop them off, and then for Eames and Ariadne to run around in Mr. James brain, the women of the James household had preformed a miracle. Dinner was cleaned up, and Rachel was quietly sponging down the kitchen counter.

When the pair, and Mr. James showed back up at the house, Ariadne experienced for the first time what it was like when Ms. James was speechless. It was comforting to know that the woman could be silent, but it was also disconcerting to see her flap her jaw and not have sound come out of it. Ariadne considered sending a picture of this phenomenon to Arthur, but decided against it. Instead she sent him a text message that said they had missed their flight. And that she had accidentally grabbed his suitcase. That way he wouldn't be suspicious as to why she had the PASIV.

Ms. James offered the two a midnight snack of some cookies and milk before sending them off to bed. She whispered for the two of them to be quiet, as Mr. James had already retired to bed, and that she too was going to go to sleep.

She thumped up the fifteen wooden stairs, with her suitcase behind her _thunk_, _thunk_, _thunk_ing behind her. She realized just how strange it was to be in Arthur's house without Arthur there. She wondered how she would be able to fall asleep without Arthur rolling around on the bunk below her. Moodily, she realized that she could finally sleep on the bottom bunk.

Until Ms. James called her from below. "Oh, Ariadne dear?"

Ariadne pivoted on her heels to look down the spindly flight of stairs. "Yes?"

"We are going to have to reconfigure our sleeping arraignments. Rachel called her boyfriend into town after you guys left, and he flew in. So you and Rachel will probably have to sleep in Arthur's room together."

Ariadne was astounded by a mixture of things.

Number one: Ms. James was speaking to her at a level that didn't rival the decibel of a jet engine.

Number two: Rachel's boyfriend would drop that much money just to come down and see her.

Number three: The fact that Rachel needed her boyfriend there was curious to Ariadne. Ariadne wondered if she was just lonely, or if she didn't want to spend time alone with her parents. There would only be a few reasons that Rachel would call in another person so quickly, and Ariadne wanted to know why.

But the fact that she had to share a room with Rachel was not comforting, and it assuaged her curiosity for while. So she nodded to Ms. James, and hoped that Rachel hadn't moved into Arthur's room yet, so she could sleep on the bottom bunk. Because it was cute when Arthur rolled around on the bottom bunk and making her sea sick.

But if Rachel was the one rolling around, Ariadne would be less likely to think it would be cute. In fact, she would be sure that she would rather sleep on the floor.

She propped open the door, and her heart sunk. There was Rachel, painting her toe nails and reading some girly magazine on the bottom bunk. Ariadne sucked in her breath and started to edge out of the room. But Rachel caught her before she was able to even take a step.

"Oh, Ariadne!" Rachel chirped, eyes brightening. "I thought I heard my mother make a fuss. Did you and Eames-y baby miss your flight?"

Ariadne nodded metallically, still in the door frame.

"Well come on in!" Rachel swooped over to Ariadne and wheeled her suitcase into the room. The whole James family seemed to have a problem with commandeering her suitcase.

Ariadne eyed the bottom bunk unhappily. It looked like the sheets hadn't been changed, since kin could sleep on slept in sheets. But the top sheets were changed and pulled tight, and everything looked clean. All of Arthur's room looked too clean, in fact. It seemed that their anxious cleaning had paid off, because all of the stacks of paper that had taken up residence in Arthur's room had either been filed away, or taken up residence in the rubbish bin outside.

Rachel was watching her with hawk like eyes. "Do you have motion sickness?" She asked politely from where she stood by Arthur's closet.

Ariadne nodded without taking her eyes off of the bunk bed. Ms. James must have been a nurse. Only a nurse would have folded the corners of a top bunk like that…

"You can have the bottom bunk if you want," she offered, seemingly an olive branch for how suspicious she had been of Ariadne before. "I don't get motion sickness. To tell you the truth, I like the top bunk."

Ariadne looked at Rachel quickly. "That's what I told your mother not too long ago. I was lying through my teeth."

Rachel let out a snort—finally something that didn't exude ladylike—and a laugh. "Oh, I'll probably change my mind. But I've been sleeping comfortably for the last few days, and you are a guest. Even if I'm a guest too."

She pulled her magazine off of the bottom bunk, screwed on the cap of her red nail polish and chucked them up onto the top bunk.

"I really don't mind sleeping on the top bunk. The mattress is really firm, because no one ever slept on it… though I do think that Arthur would store Marty up there when he was being particularly annoying. When we were littler," she made sure to add. Ariadne smiled. She didn't think that Arthur would put his dog up there now; but she could see it when he was sixteen.

"I hear that your boyfriend flew in?" Ariadne stated and questioned all at once.

Rachel nodded, and her eyes grew warm. "It was really nice of him to fly down. His business is going through some rough patches—they just split or something like that, but he likes me a lot."

She hesitated, and then swung up onto the top bunk. She took the magazine up in her hands, and looked at Ariadne levelly. "Don't tell Arthur about him, okay? He knows that I have a boyfriend, but he is extremely particular about who I date. My boyfriend is remarkable, but I'd like my parents to meet him first, before Arthur comes into the scene. Once my parents get to know him, they'll love him, and thus I will be able to convince Arthur that this one is worth keeping."

And with that, she flipped open her magazine and continued to read her article. Ariande realized that it was some sort of scientific journal and she rolled her eyes. Trust a sibling of Arthur to read a "girly" magazine that turned out to be a journal of credit.

Rachel had put her suitcase in the closet—she was neat, like Arthur, and didn't like thing laying around. She unzipped the biggest zipper, peered into her suitcase, and beheld her biggest problem.

The only thing in her suitcase was the PASIV.

She had no clothing. She had no toothbrush. She had no floss. She didn't have pyjamas.

She didn't even have her camera or her laptop.

Silently, she considered what could happen. It was late at night, and she should be going to bed. She couldn't wait for Rachel to fall asleep so that she could slip into bed in her day clothing. That, and when she woke up, Rachel would wonder why she hadn't changed.

And so she came up with a plan. Living with Arthur had transformed her into quite the schemer.

Ariadne poked her head out of the door to the closet. "Um, Rachel. I hate to ask you this. But it seems that I grabbed your brother's suitcase. I don't have any pyjamas. Can I borrow some of yours."

Rachel spared her only a few seconds look, before she dipped her head back to reading. Dully, Ariadne wondered what was so interesting in a scientific journal that Rachel would stay up until one in the morning to read it.

"You'll have to borrow some of Arthur's clothing. I would usually run up to get you some of my things, but the boyfriend is sleeping up in my room. He has a little bit of jet lag, so I don't want to wake him." She stopped reading the journal for long enough to look up at Ariadne with a mischievous look.

"Plus, it'll be fun to see you running around in a Yankees t-shirt." She winked, and then went back to reading.

Rachel was right. The only t-shirts Arthur owned were the filth from New York. She held her breath while she pulled on the shirt, and wondered if wearing something like this would cause her skin to break out.

When Ariadne was ready for bed, and had brushed her teeth with her finger and some toothpaste she had found under the sink, she tucked herself into bed.

The bed smelled like Arthur. Granted, she had never taken the opportunity to bask in his scent, but there was just something so… Arthur-y about the scent that she knew without a doubt who slept there whenever the bed was slept in.

Rachel, it seemed, had finished her ominously interesting journal entry, and flicked off the lights. She leaped back to the bed, and flew up the ladder before burrowing into her covers.

"Sorry," came the muffled statement from above. "Even at twenty-four, I still play the hot lava game before I go to bed. That, and I'm still not sure that there isn't a monster in the closet."

Ariadne laughed, and burrowed further into the bed that smelled like Arthur.

"Sweet dreams, Ariadne." Rachel wished from above.

Ariadne fell asleep, thinking about the irony of Rachel's statement. Technically, the PASIV could be considered a monster. And it was in the closet.

* * *

She leaned the bar stool back as far as it could go, thinking about the chairs out in the woodshop that could catapult things. Ms. James wasn't down in the kitchen yet, cooking, which was strange. But then again, Ariadne realized, they had been up until one in the morning the night before. She was surprised she was up at this hour, but as she watched the sunbeams reflect off of the bunches of plants on the kitchen windowsill, she decided that maybe morning was a good time of the day.

The café style door swung open and Rachel fluttered in, looking slim and beautiful as always in her pyjamas.

"Is my mother not up yet?" She asked, perching herself on one of the partner barstools. How she managed to look so chipper in the morning was also a mystery to Ariadne, but she brushed it aside.

"Maybe we should just cook?" Ariadne offered, but Rachel shook her head.

"My mother would throw a fit. You are a guest, and since I don't live here anymore, I'm a guest too. She hates having guests cook. She says that it's not their job. It is their job to enjoy themselves and not to work."

Ariadne laughed. "So when me and your brother had a food fight that one morning… it was unnatural for her to send us on errands?"

Rachel frowned, probably at her incorrect use of grammar, but nodded. "It was a bit weird. But it was weird for my brother to show up anyway. Especially for him to show up after announcing that he was going to show up."

Ariadne decided it would be better if she skirted around this dangerous topic. "I got that feeling," She said as diplomatically as she could. "But Arthur acted like it was strange for you to be home as well!"

Rachel nodded amicably. "That's because we both live far away. I'm in Australia for now, working on a PhD abroad. That's why I'm always up so late. The time difference is killer."

Ariadne had to agree. "Yeah, coming from Paris was no small feat."

The girls laughed, and Ariadne wondered why in the world she was suddenly getting along with Arthur's little sister.

"I was actually just in Australia," Ariadne continued on with the conversation, realizing that for the moment, she didn't care that it was weird that she and Rachel were behaving. She hadn't had a conversation with another female for a while. Most of her classmates were male, and all of her co-workers were male to the extreme.

Rachel seemed to find this extremely interesting. "Really now? Why were you there?"

"Me and Eames decided that it would be fun to go and see the sights. It's really out of the way, but his parents caught the bug and decided to send us. We were only there for a few days before we came here to look for houses." She explained, reciting the story she had memorized, verbatim.

Rachel frowned again at the incorrectness of the grammar, but let it slide. "Well it is a wonderful place. I wish I had known you before. I live in Sydney, and I assume that's where you went. I could have given you a tour for free."

"And charmed my man into submission. Then he wouldn't have purchased all of those useless souvenirs," Ariadne laughed.

Rachel laughed as well. "Yes. Eames is a charming man. But he seems to have a thing for spending money."

"Ah, one of his more charming personality traits." Ariadne had to tease. "We are lucky his grandparents and parents are well to do. They basically give him whatever he wants, whenever he wants it."

That was their way of explaining the wealth of one college student, and one almost middle aged man.

"Oh, now come on." Rachel cooed. "He's your fiancé! I'm sure you can think of more charming things you like about him!"

Ariande thought seriously for a few minutes. What did she like about Eames. There was a lot she liked about Eames. There just wasn't anything that was coming to mind at the moment…

"I guess I like how easy it is to torture him," Ariadne concluded, answering truthfully. "All you have to do is wave a bottle of peanut butter in front of his face and he'll clam up and do whatever you want. And usually he's a pretty good sport about it, too."

Rachel looked at Ariadne sharply. "Why peanut butter? Does he hate the smell?"

Ariadne shook her head. "Naw. He's allergic to the stuff. Well, peanuts in general."

Rachel laughed, and her eyes flickered to the hallway where Eames was sleeping. "Ariadne, what is your favorite number?" She asked suddenly, leaning forward.

Ariadne was confused. "Well… I guess I like the number nineteen. It seems under appreciated."

"Uh huh," Rachel waved whatever else Ariadne was going to say away. "And what is your second favorite number."

"Fifteen, I guess." Ariadne answered quickly, alarmed by Rachel, who had stood. "It's the first number that came to my brain. Why?"

"Nothing. Just a little experiment," Rachel laughed, but quickly changed topics when Ariadne continued looking at her curiously. "Why don't you go upstairs and pack your things. Your flight leaves later this morning. We wouldn't want you getting to the airport late again."

She turned to leave, before turning back. "I'm going to go see if I can talk my mother into letting us cook something for breakfast. I'm starved, and she is taking too long in getting up."

Ariadne didn't have anything to pack, and she wondered why in the world Rachel would think she did. But she did think that she was still wearing Arthur's clothing. And as appealing as it was to stay in his clothing, the logo on the front of his t-shirt was about to burn a hole in her epidermis. And so she decided to take a trek up to Arthur's room, and change back into her "traveling clothes." That's what she decided to call them, so that she would have an excuse as to why she was wearing the same clothing two days in a row.

And who knows. Maybe she could take a look at Arthur's yearbooks again.

Fourteen stairs later, she reached the top of the flight of the wooden steps and was halfway down the hall before she realized that something wasn't right. She paused trying to place the cause of her paranoia. She had climbed the stairs with a sense of ease, but the landing was shooting her with darts of ill-ease. Now why would—

Then she realized. Fourteen stairs later.

Fourteen.

This house had fifteen stairs.

Fifteen.

Ms. James hadn't been up cooking. Ariadne had been away before the earliest bird. Rachel had been civil to her.

She was in a dream.

And she had given Rachel her two favorite numbers. Four digits. Perfect for unlocking some sort of safe.

She needed to wake up, and now, before Rachel was able to get any sort of information out of her.

The only way to wake up was to die. She ran towards the nearest window and threw up the sliding part and punched out the screen.

With one leg out, Ariadne paused for a second. She couldn't be rash about this. She couldn't go about killing herself with no proof that this was in fact a dream. Just because there had been fourteen steps didn't mean that she was in a dream. There was only one way to tell.

And so Ariadne pulled out her Bishop, specially designed to fall and spin a specific number of degrees before coming to a stop. The cross on the hat would run parallel to the ground if all went well.

She set the bishop on the ground and crouched beside it. She had never been one for religion, and she felt the same sort of mixed feelings for this bishop as she toppled it over. She didn't know if she wanted this to be a dream or not.

The cross was perpendicular.

This was a dream.

She should have realized that when she pulled the Bishop out of her jacket pocket. She hadn't put a jacket on to go to bed. And she had never actually changed in the morning. Plus, she never carried the bishop around. The real thing was loaded in her suitcase with her clothes and her camera and her laptop, which Arthur had.

She lunged for the window, leaving her fake token on the ground in the dream.

She really wished that there was a less messy way to die, but she needed to die before Rachel was able to extract the information she needed.

And so without a second thought, Ariadne tossed herself out the window, pondering on the madness that had become her life of late.

* * *

Ariadne sat up in her bed and ripped off the needle that was stuck in her arm. Beside her, on the floor, Rachel was doing the same thing.

"How dare you!" Ariadne nearly shouted. She flung her legs over the side of the bed, and stalked toward the taller girl. The girl stood, hands out in a gesture of peace.

"Really, Ariadne, I understand," She said, eyes about to spill over with tears. "I hated people invading my head too. But this is no time for you to beat me up. We need to get Eames to the hospital."

That nearly stopped Ariadne up short. But Arthur had proved to be an able actor. It was only logical that his little sister would be an actress too. "Oh, and why is that? Did you break into his head too, and then realize there was nothing there worth stealing?"

Rachel's eyes hardened, and her hands went down to her side. She reminded Ariadne of a bird when it's feathers were ruffled, and Ariadne realized that this was actually quite an accurate metaphor. "No. I don't pointlessly dig through people's brains" The comment held an accusation, but Ariadne was unsure as to what she as getting at. "I knew that Arthur would send you into the dreams. He wouldn't want to dig through his parent's brains."

"Oh, so why do we need to get Eames to the hospital then?"

Rachel's eyes went wide, having forgotten about Eames in the last bit of the argument.

"You said he was allergic to peanuts, right?"

Ariadne nodded, still standing there in Arthur's New York Yankees shirt, fists balled.

"My mother put peanut butter in those cookies you ate last night."

And with that, Ariande realized that whatever scuffle they were going to have could wait until they were in a medical facility.

The two girls rushed to put shoes on, and then Rachel ran off down the hall, flipping on lights as they went, trying to wake the other sleeping members of the family.

"Mother! Father! Robert! Wake up!" Rachel yelped as she jogged down the hallway toward the stairs.

As anxious as she was for Eames health, she was also anxious to count the stairs, wondering if there would be fifteen this time.

A bedroom light flipped on down the hallway, and Robert Fischer stepped out of Rachel's bedroom.

"Was'the matter?" he muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

* * *

_I figured you wouldn't want to guess who the boyfriend was. And I did a really crummy job of foreshadowing that in the previous chapters, I realized, as I read back through. It was like I didn't even mention it. Just know that this is not one of those annoying plot twists that some authors throw in just for fun. Because I have been planning this from the beginning. C:_

_I realized a few more things as I was reading back through. I always read back through my story before I post the last chapter, just to make sure that I tie up all loose ends…_

_…and what I realized is that I have a lot of loose ends to tie up._

_That, and I have this things with multiples of five. I have to turn my music up to a multiple of five. And it would kill my slight OCD tendencies if I left this story at chapter 18._

_But for serious: I think I will extend this story two more chapters, after this one. I have a few more things I need to cover, that couldn't be covered in one chapter alone. This chapter is already 10 pages long, and I basically covered nothing. There is still at least 2 chapter's worth of material left to cover…_

_Plus. I want to give the final A/A scene ample room to be awkward and awesome. I don't think it deserves to be squashed in there at the end._

_Please review! I would be highly thankful if you did!_

_(btw: this chapter is completely unedited. Because I am a terrible procrastinator (and have the guilty pleasure of NetFlix and Firefly and Pawn Stars,) I didn't write this until late. And because it is late, I just want to get this out to you kiddies. LOVE YOU TOO!)_


	19. No Leeway

_Yes… I know. Three weeks later and I finally update… I'm sorry. Just know that between a giant beach trip and the fact that I leave for college NEXT SATURDAY I didn't have much time to write. I have two major papers to write and I still need to find a job._

_That, and I stumbled across a few new obsessions. I am watching this british drama thing/TV show called Merlin, that I love and adore. I've always loved King Arthur myths, and this show is exactly up to my speed. It's basically a modern-except-not-really version of King Arthur. Me and my little sister have been watching it like we would die if we didn't see the next episode… which is true. We would have died._

_My other obsession is Harry Potter fanfiction. Since the latest movie came out I've had to console myself with the fact that there will be no more Harry Potter by reading fanfic after fanfic._

_So between saying goodbye to friends, dancing around on the beach and new forms of media… life has been very busy._

_I'm going to say one more thing before I start: I found it curious that half of you saw the boyfriend coming, and half of you didn't. The same for the dream. It was a fifty-fifty split, which was very entertaining for me. Exciting!_

_And now I start this overdue chapter!_

_(Oh, and PeeEss: I have no idea about food allergies. So we are going to go with the Havesockswilltravel diagnosis of things, m'kay? C: )_

* * *

Ties

Chapter Nineteen

Wherein the James family is pitted against Ariadne

* * *

The woman with scrubs that shone like angels brought the good news that Eames was completely healthy. He had had a bit of a reaction to the Peanut Butter in the cookies, but most of the potency had been baked out. Still, the Angel in Scrubs had told them, the doctor wanted to keep Eames for a bit longer, just until everything was flushed out of his system. It would do no good to have him leave, only to have a reaction to an undigested bit of food.

And so Ariadne found herself playing the waiting game in the waiting room.

She was squashed into an ugly paisley chair with Rachel on one side of her, and a rather intimidating picture of a man washing his hands on the other. In front of her, on the floor, was a family playing Uno, seemingly unconcerned that they were in an Emergency Room waiting room at four in the morning.

She had already sent Arthur a text message, saying that Eames was in the hospital, but that everyone was okay. She knew that he would kill her if he found out later that they had been at the hospital and he hadn't known. He was a good man like that—and he was over anxious.

And Ariande was at a loss for things to do now.

With the text message sent, and her phone running out of battery, she had no choice but to turn it off. This left her with nowhere to stare. On one side of her, Rachel was shooting her nasty looks. On the other side the man washing his hands made her feel like bugs were crawling on her skin. And there was something obviously disconcerting about the family playing Uno on the carpet before her, blasé, like it was normal to play Uno on the carpet of hospitals.

This left her one place to look. Across the aisle from her, sat Fischer. He was asleep again, so he seemed much less intimidating than he had earlier. She was used to seeing him asleep, after the jobs. Or at least, she was used to seeing him _in_-sleep. It was much more natural for him, she decided. How he was able to sleep in chairs that were pretending to be fabric, but were actually plastic, she had no idea. Then she remembered that he spent most of his life on an airplane, and she understood how he was able to fall asleep with his head against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him.

She had to laugh. On his feet, poking out from his voluminous sweatpants, were the nicest pair of dress shoes that Ariadne had seen—Since Arthur left that was.

The James family obviously had taste. Arthur in shoes, Rachel in men with good taste in shoes.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Ariadne's laugh turned into a snort of surprise. She whorled to face Rachel, who had a pained look on her face.

"Fischer? Tell him what?" Ariadne asked quickly.

Rachel offered her a confused look. "How did you know Robert's name?"

"He's been all over in the news," Ariadne brushed the comment away, thankful that what she had said was true. "I'm surprised you haven't been. You know American Tabloids. Willing to get anything on anyone. With you dating him, I'm surprised that the camera gangs haven't descended upon you."

Rachel seemed to take this in stride. "I live in Australia, dear. Of course American tabloids haven't gotten me. I manage to live under the radar anyway."

Here, their conversation reached a halt, and Ariadne hoped that it would be a permanent one.

"But are you going to tell him?"

No such luck.

"Fischer? I have nothing to tell him."

Rachel shook her head and looked at Ariadne with the most imploring eyes Ariadne had ever seen. "No, I mean Arthur. Are you going to tell him?"

It looked like jumping out the window hadn't worked. Feeling like it would be nicer if she could sink into her odd colored chair, Ariadne realized that Rachel knew that she had been in Mr. James' brain. She knew what Ariadne knew. Ariadne didn't know what to think.

Ariadne let out a puff of air, and looked at Rachel square. "I have to tell him, Rachel. He has a right to know who his real father is. He's been so distraught thinking he has a good-for-nothing for a dad. He deserves to know that his father is a respectable man."

Rachel looked like a bird with an injured wing. And her eyes were still sad. "I understand why you think that… but Ariadne. You can't tell him. You just can't."

Ariadne felt something rise inside her. It was hot, and it was burning the lining of her throat.

It was anger.

"And why shouldn't I tell him?" Ariadne asked, voice oddly cold for how hot she was feeling. "You love your brother. Why wouldn't you want him to be happy?"

"Ariadne. You don't understand. This would mess up my whole family dynamic! It's—"

"You—You're shallower than a plate! I—ugh! You'd sacrifice your brother's happiness for the 'peace' of your home? Did you ever think that it might make your home more peaceful, hmm?" Ariadne whispered angrily, with a hiss. "All he wants to be is to be accepted, Rachel. Imagine a home where he was accepted. Imagine—"

"DON'T YOU DARE ASSUME YOU KNOW MY FAMILY!" Rachel roared as she jumped to her feet. Even with her hair askew, and a lake of tears filling up on the edges of her eyes, she still managed to look beautiful. But she was no longer the innocent bird Ariadne had been forced to live with for the last week. That maniac look was back in her eyes, the one that reminded her that all things weren't right with this girl.

The girl who lived in dreams for four days.

With her roar, Fischer jerked awake. His eyes flicked to where Rachel was standing, hovering over Ariadne, fists clenched. The family on the floor spared them one look before they went back to their game of Uno. Fischer's movement towards Rachel was noticed by Rachel, and she held out a hand.

"No, Robert. It's okay." A few tears had traced the lines of her face, and she shook her head, as if to clear it. "You can go back to sleep. I just need to cool down for a little bit. I'm a bit worked up after Eames-y baby's scare."

She offered a laugh, and though Fischer didn't look like he believed it, he sat back in his chair. His beautiful blue eyes didn't leave Rachel.

Rachel gathered her few belongings, and exited, telling her still watching boyfriend that she was going to the vending machines, and did he want anything. He told her "no," gracing her with a fond smile, and told her to be safe on her trek to the machines.

Ariadne doubted that Rachel was going to the vending machines, but didn't press the matter as Rachel left. She was still a bit shocked that Fischer could have bestowed such a besotted, soppy grin on such a girl as Rachel. She had the man around her finger. The only thing was: she seemed to like him as much as he liked her.

_Poor Eames_, Ariadne thought, laughing. _He has no chance._

"If you don't mind me asking," Fischer's voice shot out of the blue, and Ariadne nearly jumped. She was still on her toes from her mini argument with Rachel. "What were you guys talking about? Rachel seemed very upset."

Ariadne started, shocked to be so suddenly talking to Fischer. She managed to squeeze out a "Family," before her shocked vocal chords froze up entirely.

Fischer nodded, suddenly more at ease. "Family. Yes. That would have her worked up."

It seemed that Fischer wasn't much of a talker, and he went on to admire the hand-washing man next to her on the poster.

Chalking _that_ up to being the second most awkward discussion of the night, Ariadne again found herself with nothing to do. She couldn't very well look at Fischer, who had taken to subtly looking at her. With no other outlet, she shut her eyes.

Only to open them right back up.

Last time she had been asleep, Rachel had stuck her with a needle. Granted, Rachel wasn't in the room, and it wouldn't do for her to be seen stabbing a random girl with a needle in a public place. But after such an experience, Ariadne wasn't in the mood for sleeping at the moment.

Instead, she bounded to her feet, hopped through the family playing Uno, and tried to track down Nurse Angel. It was time she saw Eames. He was her affianced, after all.

She couldn't find Nurse Angel, but the surprisingly chipper nurse at the round nurse's station was able to point Ariadne toward Eames' room. Ariadne pondered the nurse's ability to be so happy at four in the morning as she walked towards room 419.

Eames wasn't alone in his room. Mr. James was in the more comfortable of chairs against the wall. Eames, a happy face plastered on, was blissfully asleep, a fact which made Ariadne grumpier than she already was. Between her argument with Rachel—which felt unfinished—and it being four in the morning, it was hardly fair that Eames, who had made her so worried, would be sleeping so peacefully. If she had had a rock, she would have thrown it at him.

"Oh, Ariadne dear," Mr. James said from the corner. "I thought you'd be in here soon. He's fine. I made sure he was comfortable before he fell asleep."

Ariadne grunted, not too happy that Eames was comfortable and she wasn't. But she realized that this was the perfect opportunity to strike up a conversation about Arthur and Mr. James's relationship with him.

"You are a wonderful father, Mr. James, taking care of Eames like that," Ariadne began quietly, sitting down. "If I didn't love my own father as much as I do, I would wish you were my dad."

"Thank you dear," Mr. James said softly, patting her hand with his swollen knuckles. "It's a blessing to hear you say that. A lot of the time I feel like I could have been a better father to my two children."

"I don't think they could have grown up with a better man for their father." Ariadne let her eyes smile and he smiled back. She pressed on. "Mr. James. Why don't you just adopt Arthur. You are obviously the man he thinks of as his father."

Mr. James shook his head. "Haven't we already had this discussion? I can't adopt him."

"But why," she pressed. "Wouldn't it make your family so much happier? He wants to be your son. He would give anything to be your son." She hoped all of her subliminal messages were sinking in.

"Ariadne…" Mr. James managed to warn, but Ariadne was on a tirade, and she wouldn't be halted.

"Please, sir. I… I love your son." She blushed when she said it. "From what I've seen of your family, he would be so much happier if he didn't have to wish if he were your son."

"Ariande…" He warned again, but Ariadne wouldn't listen.

"Sir. I know I don't' know your family, but from what—"

"That is right, young lady. You don't know my family." Mr. James snapped, and for the first time, Ariadne heard the loud voice that carried across raucous court rooms. "Now I appreciate what a good friend you've been to my son, and I appreciate your plea on his behalf. But there are extenuating circumstances that require me not to adopt him. So I would appreciate it if you dropped the matter. I know you mean the best. But you don't have all the information you need."

Ariadne was cowed. She did have some information—more than he knew. And that might have been what was making him so uncomfortable.

There were a few minutes of quiet. Ariadne twiddled her thumbs, and Mr. James looked out the dark window.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Ariadne whispered. "You're right… I shouldn't have pressed."

Mr. James covered her hand with his own. "It's alright dear. I know you have my son's best interests in mind. You know what?"

Ariadne looked up at Mr. James, who had a bit of a smile on his face. "I think the thing you could do to make him the happiest would be to dump your current fiancé. It's obvious that he is infatuated with you dear. If you really had his best interests in mind, you would mirror his interests and get interested in him, and not the man before us on the bed."

Ariadne laughed, embarrassed, and surveyed Eames. "I dunno, Mr. James," She said, patting his hand. "My current fiancé has an accent. I don't know what Arthur has that can beat that."

"He has a dog who eats pancakes, an over-doting mother, and a sister who would kill you if you laid finger on her brother," Mr. James laughed. "Yes. I understand why you chose Eames."

"I dunno." Ariadne cocked her head to the side, looking at Eames. "I'm feeling really attached to your dog."

The two laughed.

And Rachel walked in.

* * *

_Wow. I was supposed to cover so much more in this chapter! D: But it is late and I need to go to bed. I'm going to a water park tomorrow and I need sleep! Again, this is going to go up unedidted._

_The next chapter will probly be a long time in the making. I move into my dorm on Saturday, and next Wednesday starts my first week of classes. So I'll be focused on that. I promise that I won't take four months, but with all this added responsibility piling up on me, I will have to fight tooth and nail to get back to my hobbies. If I could live in a perfect world, I would read and write fanfiction all day… But sadly I don't live in that world. There are those terrible things called "real people duties" that I have to attend to….._

_But I will try to update soon dears! I promise!_

_Sorry for the lameness of this chapter. D: Like I said, I wanted to put in more, but I felt this was a good stopping spot. Plus, the next chapter would have been really short._

_But I'll tell you what the next chapter is about! You learn what Rachel was hiding in her dream, and why she doesn't want Ariadne to tell Mr. James! And there might be a surprise visit! Yayayayayay! Winn!_

_Please review, even if I am a terrible updater! Sorry that I didn't get around to answering a lot of your reviews. I feel terrible. D::::::: I've been apologizing a lot to you guys…._


	20. There and Back Again

_Hey y'all. I decided that I would hurry and write this chapter while I had some down time. I'm starting this a few days before classes start, and I'm in my dorm right now. Feel excited. This is my first chapter while at School… but it is also my last chapter. Be sad. D:_

_I wanted to say thank you for all of the well wishing I got for college! So far I'm having a great time! If the rest of the year is like this, I'm excited for things to come!_

_Last chapter! And it looks to be a killer chapter! Finally you guys will get the long chapter you wished for!_

* * *

**Ties**

Chapter 20

_Wherein Ariadne's story comes to a close_

* * *

It appeared that there were things Ariadne didn't know about the James family. For when Rachel entered the room, she looked the same as she always did. But Mr. James saw something in her stature or in her eyes (Ariadne wasn't sure) that lead him to rise from his chair.

"I'll leave you two then," He said, dusting off his dress pants. Like Arthur, he wouldn't be seen in anything but a suit. He obviously hadn't been to bed before the Eames fiasco: he still had on his tie. But the weariness was starting to show. As he paused at the door, there were purple shadows under his warm eyes.

"Let me know when you're done. This room is the only place with comfortable seating. I'm going to go call your mother." Ms. James was at home, ridding the house of any trance of peanut butter. Mr. James seemed to _humph_, as he left, but that might have been the sound of Rachel sitting down.

"Here," She offered Ariadne a silver can. Ariadne raised her eyebrow, but took the proffered item.

Soda.

"I couldn't find anything stronger," Rachel apologized. "In a hospital and all. But I figured the caffeine would help."

Ariadne nodded, and popped the soda open. The result was a loud sound—Ariadne was disappointed for a moment that it didn't wake Eames. But then again, Rachel was being nice, and that didn't bode well. It was better that Eames stayed asleep. At least for now.

"Look, Ariadne," Rachel said, not touching her own drink. "A while ago, I over reacted."

She let that sit for a while as she chewed on her next words.

"But I need you to understand: you can't tell Arthur. I know you think you'll be doing him a favor. But it's the biggest harm you could do him."

Ariadne felt her knuckles go white around the can. She was rather tired of this girl telling her what was wrong and what was right.

She knew what was right for Arthur.

She knew him. She knew what he wanted.

But Rachel was being patient with her, and so Ariadne decided to be patient with Rachel.

"Okay. Explain _why_ knowing that the person he _thinks_ of as his father _actually_ is his father is bad for him." Ariadne stated very slowly.

Rachel took in a breath that she didn't let out for a while. She seemed to be too concerned with knowing what to say next to really breath. Ariadne was forced to admit that Rachel would even be pretty with the blue lips that come with asphyxiation.

"My family…" Rachel began, but then stopped. "My family, is as close our proximity together. What I mean to say is that our love for each other has a direct correlation with how physically close we are. Do you understand?"

"The closer you are to each other physically, the more love each other."

Rachel nodded. "Indeed. It's a strange phenomenon. But that's how it works with the James family. I take it Arthur never talked about me, or his parents, around you before?"

Ariadne shook her head.

"See?" Rachel prodded. "It's not because we don't love each other when we're apart. It is just that we are all private people. We will call on birthdays, or send cards, but we never keep real contact. It's only when we come together like this that we actually show any sort of knowledge of each other's presence."

Ariadne shook her head again, but not for the same reason. The James family was an odd one—one that she wished she understood.

And then she realized a bit of where Rachel was coming from. She didn't know the James family as well as she thought. Her own family was entirely different. If anything, her family was too clingy, too affectionate.

But she knew Arthur. She knew that knowing would be good for him.

"We rarely get together. In fact, this is the first time that we've been together for a long time. I can't even remember. I actually think the last time I saw Arthur was right after he… er… saved me from something."

"I know that you're a dream diver, Rachel." Ariadne rolled her eyes. "You don't have to cover it up."

Rachel flushed slightly, but soldiered on. "Right. Well, the last time I saw him was when he was pulling me out of a four day coma. I knew that he would go into the dreaming business. It was the right fit for him. And here he has been doing it for longer than I have. He's too curious. And therein lies the whole problem facing us.

"Arthur is curious about the wrong things. He is hyper-curious, but to a point: he is too respectful. For a law breaker, he is sure honest, don't you think. He respects the laws of how things work. He respects people. Have you noticed this?"

Ariadne thought, and it didn't take more than a millisecond to know what Rachel was talking about.

_Honesty is the best Policy_.

His constant courtesy.

No underhanded tricks, even in the dreaming world.

He already knew everything there was to know about a person. But he let people introduce themselves like he didn't.

He was a respectful person. Even when he was flicking marshmallows at her, he wasn't doing it out of spite. He was simply having a good time.

Even when he was in dreaming, he played thing by the rules. He obeyed the laws of the dream world. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

"Ariadne," Rachel began again. "Arthur doesn't question. He just does what he knows to be right, regardless of danger or of personal harm… has he… shared the whole story of what happened when he met Mal and Cobb and I? When he found out about Dreaming."

Ariadne flipped through the pages of her brain and found the conversation they had had on that particular subject. It had been a while ago, Ariadne thought. It had been a while ago that they had shared a bunk bed and had asked each other questions. But it actually hadn't. Somehow it seemed like longer ago than it was.

"He told me that you were stuck in the dream world for four days and that he had to extract the information out of you. He said that you weren't the same after that." Ariadne answered, summing up Arthur's exact words.

"Did he tell you what information I had kept from our client? The information that I gave that was wrong." She asked, eyes growing dark. It obviously wasn't a memory she liked thinking of.

"No, he wouldn't tell—"

"The information was about his father, Ariadne." Rachel cut in. "Not his real father. Not my dad. His fake dad. His criminal dad."

Ariadne looked a little bemused. Where was this going?

"Our client was a Family, looking for a reason to keep Arthur's dad in jail. With the information I got, it would keep his dad in prison, without parole.

"But I'd read the letters his dad wrote Arthur. My parents aren't very good at hiding them. And since I had no qualms about personal space, I read every letter. But Arthur respected the privacy of my parents, and he didn't read the letters. So he didn't know how much his father missed him. He didn't know that he had changed. He didn't know that he wanted to turn his life around and live with his son.

"Because I knew all of this information, I withheld the information from that evil Family, gave them rubbish information. But the Family wouldn't have it. They wouldn't believe that this man had changed his ways. They wanted him locked up for good. It was crunch time. Parole was coming up. I had four days to give them the correct information, or they were going to turn us and our illegal business over to the police.

"But I couldn't give them the information. Not when it was Arthur's dad; a man who wanted nothing more than to be with his son. I know, I know: you can't tell much from letters. He might have been writing them just to appear more innocent. But what sort of hardened criminal will send such heartfelt letters, year after year, when the boy he is writing to doesn't even respond. One of the letters gushed that he had read about Arthur in the paper—his team had won state champs—and that he was so proud to have a son like Arthur. He wished that Arthur would write him back, but even if he didn't, he would keep sending letters because he wanted his son—_his son!_—to know how proud he was.

"So I couldn't give them the information. I wanted Arthur to meet back up with his dad. I wanted him to have the dad he always wanted.

"But then the four day ultimatum came, and I was put under the needle for trying to run away with the information. And so Arthur came, and extracted all the information that the Family needed out of my brain. He knew, when he gave the information, that it would wreck any chance of him ever seeing his father. But he did it to protect me. He didn't ask me why I didn't give the information to the Family. He didn't ask reasons. He didn't press as to why I had never mentioned my job. When I woke up and found out he had given the information, he drove me home and made me soup. Then he left, and I hadn't seen him since."

A subdued silence permeated the room like the smell of bleach. It was sharp, and uncomfortable, and Ariadne felt her eyes stinging.

"And so, Ariadne, you can't tell him. Okay? I hope you see why—" but she was cut off. A nurse in deceivingly cheery orange scrubs walked in and told the two very morosely:

"The doctor will be coming in to assess the patient. He would appreciate it if you two cleared out."

She was more along the lines of what Ariadne thought a night-nurse should be. Moody, irritable and slightly dark in speech.

Uncomfortable with the situation with Rachel, she leapt to her feet as soon as this cranky nurse offered her a way out. She wasn't exactly sure what Rachel was getting at with all of her anecdotes, but they were making her uncomfortable. To be sure, she couldn't hate Rachel as much as she had before. She had acted heroically in her own way, and it made Ariadne's dyed-in-the-wool hatred of her feel petty.

Rachel rose with her, and preceded her out of the door, albeit with a bit more grace than Ariadne. Unfortunately for Ariadne, Rachel waited for her at the door, and fell in step beside her. She was very nearly monstrously tall, Ariadne decided, and she had to look up to see Rachel's face.

It didn't feel right to continue talking about Arthur in the hallway. The sleeping Eames and the comfort of the chairs had provided the two with an odd sense of security in their secrecy. The hallway, though empty, provided no such privacy.

But still there was a feeling in the air that there needed to be conversation. The two were at a stand-off with each other, so silence, comfortable or not, was not allowed to linger. And so Ariadne took the opportunity to ask Rachel the question that had lingered on her mind since she first met Rachel.

"Rachel—ah," She said, and Rachel turned her doe eyes on her. "Can I ask you—why do you hate me?"

Rachel's thin eyebrows slunk towards her pert nose. "I don't hate you."

The girl was a wonderful actress at times.

Now was not one of those times.

"Really Rachel," Ariadne held up her hands in an 'I surrender' gesture. "You don't have to hide it. I can tell that you don't like me that much."

Rachel, thankfully dropped her façade, and let the usual, irritated expression take over. Ariadne had grown accustomed to the facial expression when she was around. At first Ariadne had thought maybe Rachel thought she smelled bad. But now she knew that Rachel just detested the very look of her, not just her smell.

"I… I…" Rachel began, seemingly pleased that she could now voice her feelings. But given the opportunity to, she seemed to have lost her ability to form sentences. "I… Just stop stringing my brother along, _alright_?"

It came out like an explosion. Along the corridor, nurses peaked out of rooms. One nurse with a stethoscope looked very displeased at the outburst and shook the device at them.

Ariadne, too, let out an explosion. It was an explosive laugh, shot mostly from her nose, and she was thankful she wasn't sick. So forceful was her amused snort that, had there been a mucous build-up, it would have been expelled as well.

"What?" Rachel was defensive after Ariadne's magnificent display of snorting.

"I…" Ariadne found herself so incredibly entertained by the reason behind Rachel's hatred that she was at a loss for words. "I'm not stringing your brother along. Believe me."

"Ariadne." Rachel explained, almost like she was talking to a four year old. "Stringing along is usually what you call it when a girl knows that a boy likes her and she lets it keep happening."

"I know that he likes me," Ariadne's face burned as red as embers. "And he knows that I like him. I'd hardly call that stringing him along."

It was Rachel's turn to be at a loss for words. She moved her perky mouth like a goldfish, and her eyes glazed over. "So… Fiancé Eames… He's just…"

"Part of the plan?" Ariadne finished. "Yes. Your brother is smart. He realized that it would be mathematically improbable that all of us would show up at the same time, same place. So he devised a plan that would all get us here. That involved me being engaged to Eames."

Rachel's mind was working like sixty. It seemed to fit, Ariadne guessed she was thinking.

"Eames is hardly my sort of man," Ariadne finished. "Your brother is my sort of person."

"Oh…" Rachel managed to say. "I guess it makes sense. I did realize that it was illogical that all of you would have showed up at once. But I didn't even think to question your and Eames' relationship. He always spoke so high of you when we two were alone. It was obvious that he really did like you a lot. He's a good guy. I was kind of mad at how you were treating him, too."

Ariadne felt her stomach plummet into the level of guilt. Here she had thought him to be 'cheating' on her with Rachel, but he had been speaking so highly of her. And she had hardly played her part of doting fiancé very well. He had done all the work. She now also felt bad that she had wanted to wake Eames up earlier on the day. He was a good person. He deserved sleep.

"So, I forgive you for stringing my brother along. As it turns out you weren't." There was a look in her eye that said: yes. Ariadne was forgiven. But there was another, deeper look that told her she wasn't off the hook entirely. Somehow, Ariadne knew that Rachel thought she wasn't good enough for her brother. Ariadne wondered if Rachel would ever find someone good enough for her brother. She doubted it.

"Er…" Ariadne began, as they turned into the waiting room at the end of the hall. "Do you mind if I ask you one more question."

Rachel, who had been eyeing the empty chair next to Fischer, turned when Ariadne put a hand on her elbow.

"Er… sure." Rachel looked quickly down at her. "Shoot."

"Do you…" Ariadne didn't know quite how to phrase her next question. "Because of what you know about your dad… Do you see him any differently now? Has your perspective on him changed?"

Rachel's eyes grew wide, but hard. "Yes. Things have changed. I still love him. But I don't know what to think about his actions." She dislodged her elbow from Ariadne's grasp and went to sit next to Fischer. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and for a few seconds, Ariadne felt very lonely.

* * *

Eames was deemed to be fit to be released that morning. But as it was four in the morning, the hospital allowed him to stay the night at the hospital. Mr. James went home, citing aching hips for his inability to sleep in the fold up chairs provided by the hospital. He said that he would be back around seven to claim his children, and swung out of the parking lot in his black car. Ariadne found a corner—thankfully the Uno family had packed up their cards and were all asleep under some blankets in the opposite corner.

Wishing that she had a blanket, and still scared at how prepared the family was, Ariadne made use of her super power to sleep anywhere, and nodded off to sleep.

* * *

Blackness turned to blinding light as her eyes snapped open. She let out a gasp, as strong arms circled around her and pulled her up into a spine shattering hug. There was something distinct about the smell, one she couldn't place, but it left a feeling of happiness in her brain.

And then she saw the collar of the shirt. It was starched. Starched like the owner's father had taught him to starch collars.

It was Arthur.

And he was hugging her.

Very tightly she added in her brain. Tight, like one would hug something they thought lost.

"I thought I lost you!" Arthur whispered.

Ariadne commended her ESP for preparing her for _that_ cliché. In her sleep deprived, half asleep state, she was only registering the fact that Arthur was hugging her very tightly. And that there were other people in the room. That was embarrassing.

Her arms, acting completely on their own, pushed Arthur away.

"Whoa buddy," She looked up at him. "What do you mean by that? The person you nearly lost was Eames. I suggest you go hug him."

He grabbed her hand and looked around the room. His eyes rested on Fischer and Rachel, both of whom had awoken to Ariadne's gasp.

"Let's take this outside," Arthur said to her, conversationally. She noticed that he didn't let go of her hand.

Back in the hallway, he didn't let go of her hand either. They began walking toward the entrance, or so Ariadne assumed. She was lost in the hospital, and Arthur seemed to be leading the way.

"Want to explain why you're back?" Ariadne asked, liking the feeling of Arthur's hand.

"Want to explain to me why you haven't been answering your phone?" Arthur asked at the same time.

The two looked at each other, both willing the other to answer the question first.

"Oh, my phone is—"

"If you'd answer your phone—"

The both paused, having both spoken at the same time.

"You first," Ariadne prompted, gesturing for Arthur to continue.

"Actually, my story hinges on the question: why didn't you answer your phone."

Ariadne felt her phone in her pocket and squirmed. "My battery is nearly dead. I turned it off to save battery."

"And what good is a phone's battery when the device is turned off? Were you planning on turning it on later to see if you had missed calls?" Arthur was falsely calm. But there was something angry behind his soft eyes.

"Er… yes," Ariadne answered, even though that plan hadn't been thought of.

"You're lying," Arthur sounded resigned to his fate now. It seemed that whatever emotional high he had been on before was receding.

"Okay… So I was," Ariadne said, prizing her hand out of Arthur's soft hands. "What's it to you?"

"Ariadne, you have to understand. I had no idea what was going on over here. I still don't know what happened. I'm getting off the airplane and settling into my hotel in New York. I've even bought myself a newspaper with the ball scores, and I go into my suitcase for my toothbrush. I open my suitcase, and instead of my toothbrush, I pull out yours.

"I don't know what happened to you. All of the sudden, the ball reports don't matter. I open your suitcase, and I don't have the PASIV. I look on your camera, and there is a picture of Fischer."

He sighed.

"Ariadne, I didn't know what to think," he patted her cheek, as if to assure himself that she was still there. "I thought maybe you might have just grabbed my suitcase. Then I got a text in the middle of the night that Eames was in the hospital. And then you wouldn't answer my calls.

"I'm paid for deducing, Ariadne. And all my clues were pointing towards this: Fischer had seen you on the plane. He remembered who you were. He was finally able to track you down to my parents' house. Eames was in the hospital because of injury from Fischer's men. And when you wouldn't answer my phone calls, I thought something had happened to you."

"So, I packed my things and hopped on the fastest and closest plane out of New York. I got here and you still wouldn't answer, so I picked the closest hospital and hoped that you would be here.

"Thankfully you were."

Ariadne now understood. He had been worried for her.

It was sweet.

He was sweet.

"Ariadne, you need to be more careful," he told her, taking her hand again. She felt tingles in her fingers and warmth in her skull.

But she noticed that he didn't press her for reasons. He didn't ask why she hadn't come back on her plane. He didn't ask why she needed the PASIV. He didn't press.

She knew he wanted to know.

But she wasn't going to tell him.

Because he didn't press.

And that is when Mr. James walked through the front door. It was seven AM, sun warming the cold hospital floor. She hadn't noticed the light. But Arthur dropped her hand, to keep up a façade.

When Mr. James walked through the door, she knew what she was going to do.

She wasn't going to tell Arthur.

How could she.

He didn't press.

He didn't pry.

The family would separate.

And Arthur wouldn't press.

Ariadne understood now, what Rachel had been talking about. She understood the James family a bit better now.

Hypothetically, she could tell Arthur. She could tell him about his real father.

And then he would leave, and he wouldn't talk to his father again, because that's what the James family did.

And then he would think on it, and realize that his father had reason to keep this secret from him.

And then Arthur would deduce, but he would never know for certain why Mr. James had kept this secret from him. And so he would keep questioning.

But he would never question Mr. James.

Because Arthur didn't press. Because he was too polite and respectful.

He already knew everything there was to know about a person. But he let people talk like he didn't already know.

And so, because the James family never spoke, and because Arthur never pressed, nothing would ever happen.

And so Arthur would keep on wondering, and he would wonder if it was something he had done.

Or if maybe Mr. James wasn't proud of him, and wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn't true, and that was easy to see. But in the case of Mr. James, Arthur had very low self-confidence.

And so a father-son pair, based on love and trust would be broken. All because of one lie of omission.

And so Ariadne wouldn't tell.

It wrenched her heart in two. But it was better that her heart be in two, than to have two hearts in two.

"I'm here to collect you," Mr. James said, hardly blinking when he saw his son standing beside Ariadne.

He winked at Ariadne. "I knew he'd be back. He couldn't leave you alone for long."

He winked, and hit Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur had pinked, and he scowled at his father.

As his father turned to leave, Arthur rolled his eyes. Breathing in, he bent down and placed a tiny kiss on Ariadne's lips. Surprised, she stood in front of the door, light streaming in around her. Arthur smiled at her, and patted her hair.

"I think I might be more of a cat person now," he said, smiling, and then moved to follow his father.

"You know," He was yelling up toward his father. "I don't think you tease Rachel half as much as you tease me. She's in there snuggling and she gets no ragging. How is this fair?"

Ariadne, letting a sloppy grin cover her face, turned away from the sun, and watched the two suited, lean, dark haired men walk off with a matching, uneven gait.

More father and son now than they would ever need to be.

Because that was just how their family worked.

* * *

_So this ending is not me being lazy. This is how I've planned the story to end from day one. Sorry kiddies. I don't like neat endings. And this has just the right mixture of features to be an indeterminate ending. Will Arthur be happy with his son-status, or did Ariadne not make the right choice? Will Mr. James ever tell Arthur? It's for you to decide for yourself!_

_For the record: all the Night nurses I worked with were fantastic. I always pictured them to be cranky like Ariadne thought they would be, but this is not the case at all. I feel like daytime nurses are the cranky ones in comparison. Probably because they have to deal with annoying families all day. C;_

_It's weird to think that this story is over. I have to say: I think this is the fastest I've ever completed a story. And this chapter was the best time managed chapter I have ever written. Granted, it is 12:00 at night, and I won't post it today. But I actually worked on it all throughout the week, rather than binge writing it one day. I even managed to get all of my homework done before I started! It's good that I got it done now, because I feel like it's going to be very busy soon! (I found some people on my hall who have an xbox, and they said that if I provided FIFA, I could use their xbox to play. C; )_

_Let's see… who to thank?_

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter_

_Thank you to my itunes playlist: it kept me inspired and distracted. If I didn't like a song, I would skip, and that is probably why there are so many discontinuity issues (like how the soda cans disappear in this chapter). OH WELL!_

_Thank you to my sister for making me write this story. And thank you to her for not reviewing every chapter. I love you too._

_To my reviewers. I don't know what to say that hasn't already been said. But I write for reviewers, not for those saints who write for themselves. I write for an audience, and you have been the greatest audience I've ever had the pleasure to write for. What makes me the saddest about this story ending is that I won't be able to communicate with y'all anymore. I've made quite a number of excellent friends during the writing of this story, and I'll be sad that I won't be able to have constant contact with you anymore._

_That being said… if you want to keep in contact with me, my PM inbox is always open: you can stop in an say hello if you want._

_And now, I bring this story to a close. On page 13. Ominous…_

_THANK YOU ALL AGAIN!_

_And please review!_


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